DESMOND  ROURRE 
IRISHMAN 


JOHN  HASLETTE 


/yf>Y''^ 


DESMOND    ROURKE,   IRISHMAN 


"'It's  au  revoir  then.  ...  I  won't  say  good-by.'" 

(Page  247-1 


DESMOND    ROURKE 
IRISHMAN 


BY 


JOHN    HASLETTE 

AUTHOR    OF    "THE    PASSION    OF   THE    PRESIDENT, 
"THE   CARVEN    BALL" 


NEW     YORK 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY 

1911 


6}^ 


Copyright,  1911,  by 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Published  September,  1911 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — ROURZE I 

II. — The  Speculator 17 

III. — Uncertainty 30 

IV. — Leon 46 

V. — The  Water-Seller 65 

VI.— The  Proper  Tool Si 

VII. — The  Letter 93 

VIII. — Loopholes  of  Retreat no 

IX. — Smith  Decides 126 

X. — The  Shadow 142 

XI. — The  Visitant 156 

XII. — A  Cleared  Field 169 

XIII. — MiTAD  Collaborates 186 

XIV. — A  Clean  Slate 203 

XV. — Love  Shatters  an  Illusion 216 

XVI. — Confession 231 

XVII.— Retreat 24S 

XVin. — In  Concert 262 

XIX.— The  Contact 277 

XX. — The  Legacy 293 

XXI. — The  Bettered  Time 310 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 


CHAPTER   I 


ROURKE 


I  HAVEN'T  seen  a  woman  for  six  months !  " 
Jeanne,  the  daughter  of  old  Courvois, 
proprietor  of  the  Cafe  Fleur  de  Lys,  at 
Santola,  glanced  across  the  counter  at  the  flushed 
and  dusty  man  who  had  spoken,  and  Hfting  her 
full  lids  slightly,  replied  to  him  in  a  tone  which 
was  completely  passive  and  unmoved. 

"  Comment?    Seex  months — C'est  drole  ga." 

Her  hands,  meanwhile,  went  on  with  the 
drying  of  a  wine-glass  which  had  occupied  them 
when  the  stranger  addressed  her,  but  she  found 
time  to  flash  a  glance  at  her  father,  who  was  re- 
garding them  from  his  end  of  the  cafe  with  an 
expression  of  interested  amusement. 

"Droll  is  it?"  said  the  man  earnestly. 
"  Well,  it  may  be  to  a  woman.  But  a  man  who's 
been  back  of  the  mountains  feels  that  a  woman's 
face  is  a  kind  of  diversion." 

The  earnestness  of  his  tone  brought  the  slow 
blood  to  Jeanne's  cheeks.    It  startled  her  to  no- 

I 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

tice  that  he  was  looking  at  her  with  quite  hon- 
est admiration.  There  was  a  curious  gHtter  in 
his  eyes  which  surprised  her,  too.  Old  Courvois 
had  crossed  the  cafe  now,  to  interview  the  cus- 
tomer, and  his  business  glance  took  in  all  the 
details  of  his  torn  and  dilapidated  clothes. 

''  American  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

''  No,  Irish — Rourke's  my  name,  and  I  hope 
you  like  it." 

"  You  got  something  to  sell,  monsieur  ?  " 

"  Something,  or  anything,  or  anybody ;  but 
nothing  in  particular." 

Courvois  shrugged:  *'  To  buy  then?  " 

Rourke  slipped  up  against  the  counter  sud- 
denly, and  his  muscular  hand  reaching  across 
took  a  grip  on  the  Frenchman's  shoulder.  His 
voice  came  in  a  whisper  which  was  almost  fero- 
cious. 

"Food!" 

Courvois  did  not  blink  but  he  swung  a  hand 
to  the  shelf  behind  him,  and  grasping  a  bottle, 
passed  it  to  the  swaying  man.  His  eyes  strayed 
to  Jeanne,  who  put  down  the  wine-glass,  and 
going  across  the  cafe  began  methodically  to  cut 
bread  and  meat. 

Rourke  took  the  bottle,  straightened  himself 
with  an  effort,  and  drew  the  cork  with  his  teeth. 
As  the  liquid  gurgled,  Courvois  was  set  free, 
and  came  from  behind  the  counter  to  fetch  a  seat 


ROURKE 

for  this  strange  customer.  Jeanne  approached 
with  the  food,  and  set  it  down  on  a  table  at  hand. 

"  Pas  si  vite;  slowly !  "  advised  the  French- 
man. "  It  is  not  good  to  eat  quickly  when  one 
has  not  eaten  for  a  long  time." 

He  was  rather  an  original,  this  Courvois;  a 
redhot  royalist,  though  he  had  never  known 
France  under  the  rule  of  a  king;  a  fiery  patriot, 
though  he  had  never  seen  France,  being,  indeed, 
the  son  and  grandson  of  planters  who  had  lived 
all  their  lives  in  Martinique.  His  cafe  aped 
those  of  the  boulevards  of  Paris,  while  disclaim- 
ing republican  sympathies  by  a  display  of  painted 
fieur-de-lys  on  its  front  fagade — the  old  flower  of 
France ;  before  those  oddly  named  months  of  rev- 
olution had  swept  away  all  the  vestiges  of  a  royal 
dynasty,  and  turned  for  these  years  a  palace  into 
a  pla3^ground  for  tourists.  Santola  missed  the 
esoteric  significance  of  these  symbols,  being  a  re- 
public in  a  republic;  governing  its  own  small  af- 
fairs without  particular  interference  from  the 
Federal  government.  But  Santola  appreciated 
Courvois,  because  he  had  given  the  town  a  cafe 
of  a  luxurious  kind,  and  had  a  reputation  for  hon- 
esty— a  characteristic  which  receives  its  full  mead 
of  praise  in  those  places  where  it  is  rarest. 

The  Irishman  recovered  himself  slowly,  and 
as  his  strength  came  back,  subjected  his  host  to 
a  furtive  but  searching  scrutiny.     The  results 

3 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

must  have  been  satisfactory,  for  when  he  had 
finished  eating,  he  laid  his  fingers  on  the  other's 
lapel,  and  drew  him  down  a  little. 

*'  Is  there  anywhere  we  can  talk?  This  place 
may  be  filling  up  in  a  bit.    Private,  I  mean." 

"  Mais  certainement.  There  is  a  little  court 
at  the  back,  where  one  may  sit  without  molest- 
ment.    Follow  me,  if  you  please." 

Rourke  followed  him  out  through  a  swing 
door  into  a  tiled  courtyard,  where  the  sunlight 
lay  in  flat  gold  beyond  the  deep  purple  shadows 
of  the  cafe.  He  caught  sight,  then,  of  a  plaster 
statuette,  topping  a  pedestal,  stared  at  it  curious- 
ly, and  sank  into  a  seat  Courvois  had  drawn  for- 
ward. 

'*  What  you  got  there — the  gentleman  with 
the  odd  breeches,  and  the  smile?  " 

Courvois  turned  to  the  statue,  and  bowed: 
"  Eet  is  my  King !  "  he  said  seriously. 

Rourke  took  off  his  battered  hat:  "  I  beg  his 
royal  pardin.    I  hope  he  keeps  well  ?  " 

Courvois  moved  restlessly,  then  sat  down: 
"  Monsieur,  we  will  talk.  You  will  explain,  per- 
haps, what  business  you  have  with  me." 

Rourke  beat  the  dust  from  his  ragged  coat^ 
and  stretched  out  his  booted  feet,  with  a  luxuri- 
ous sigh.  "  It  was  Roquille  did  it,"  he  explained 
vaguely.  "  I  came  across  him  five  months  back, 
and  he  says  to  me,  '  Courvois  is  your  man,'  he 

4 


ROURKE 

says.  '  He  lives  over  in  Santola,  and  you  couldn't 
do  better  than  go  to  him.  Old  Johnny  Courvois 
is  honest;  old  Johnny  is  straight,'  those  were  his 
words.  He's  a  homme  honnete,  or  honnete 
homme,  one  or  the  other,  he  said." 

Courvois  threw  out  his  hands :  "  You  have 
seen  him,  ce  brave  Roquille!  Ah,  the  good  fel- 
low, I  have  not  seen  him  for  a  year  it  may  be. 
What  news  of  him  ?  " 

Rourke  looked  down  gravely :  "  The  poor  f el- 
low'll  never  rub  gray  hairs,  Courvois.  It's  dead 
he  is.  I  was  wid  him  then,  and  I  tell  you  he 
supped  more  quinine  than  any  man  I've  ever 
seen,  before  he'd  give  up  and  go.  It's  a  comfort 
to  me  to  think  I  had  it  to  give  him." 

"Dead?  That  is  unfortunate,  but  it  will  be 
a  rest  to  the  good  fellow." 

"  That's  true,  anyway.  It's  the  first  good  rest 
he's  had,  and  no  man  could  doubt  but  he  needed 
it.  It's  hard  running  from  sorrow  when  it's  tied 
to  your  coat  tails,  Courvois,  that  it  is.  Seems 
all  the  more  strange  that  he  didn't  go  out  easy. 
Man !  he  took  a  power  of  quinine !  " 

Courvois  sighed :  "  You  were  a  partner  to 
him?" 

"  That's  it.  I  left  him  the  other  side  of  the 
Andes.  I've  come  over  them  since,  and  a  tire- 
foot  job  it  was.  Cold  and  hunger  and  dirt's  as 
old  as  the  hills,  but  you  never  seem  to  get  used 

5 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

to  them  the  same  way.  Well,  Roquille  told  me 
to  come  to  you,  and  here  I  am.  Now  I've  got  the 
bite  and  sup  in  me  we'll  talk." 

"  Ah,  monsieur  has,  what  you  call  him — 
struck  it?  " 

''  As  I'm  a  sinner,  I  did,  but  it's  little  use 
it'll  be  to  me,  unless  I  can  get  help  wid  it." 

"  That  is  true.  I  hope,  too,  that  monsieur 
has  kept  the  secret  to  himself." 

Rourke  laughed  shortly,  and  taking  off  his 
ragged  coat,  held  it  up  for  inspection.  ''D'ye  think 
that's  the  coat  of  a  man  who's  let  anyone  know 
about  it?  Sure  it's  purple  and  fine  linen  I'd  be 
wearing,  if  I'd  met  anyone  to  develop  the  thing." 

Courvois  shrugged.  "  With  anyone  who 
would  assist  to  develop,  that  is  correct ;  but  there 
are  the  others.  One  steals  a  secret  sometimes, 
monsieur." 

Rourke  rolled  up  his  shirt  sleeves,  and  bared 
an  upper  arm  tmder  the  smooth  skin  of  which 
mighty  muscles  rippled  and  grew  tense. 

"  What's  that,  Courvois  ?  Muscle !  I've  the 
arm  of  a  man  who  can  keep  a  secret."  He  felt 
in  the  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  drew  out  a  life 
preserver.  "  Here's  another  old  friend ;  only  his 
muscles  are  all  whalebone,  and  the  head  of  him's 
harder  than  my  own.  For  close  quarters,  that's 
equal  to  two  knives  and  a  sawed-off  shotgun, 
I'd  give  the  odds  most  days,  and  glad.     I  pride 

6 


ROURKE 

myself  on  that  tool.  It's  never  touched  one  that 
didn't  richly  deserve  it — and  they  didn't  know 
it  till  after." 

The  Frenchman  smiled  a  little.  His  business 
brain  was  occupied  at  the  moment  with  a  more 
concrete  subject.  "  Monsieur  s' amuse — but  to 
business.    You  have  a  sample,  perhaps?  " 

Rourke  plunged  a  hand  into  his  trousers 
pocket.  When  he  withdrew  it,  there  lay  upon  his 
open  palm  a  rugged  and  dull  object  about  the  size 
of  a  small  potato.  Courvois'  eyes  lighted  up,  but 
he  kept  his  lips  tight,  and  preserved  an  appear- 
ance of  disinterested  calm. 

'*  Virgin?  "  he  asked  slowly. 

"  The  same.  There's  twelve  ounces  in  that 
bit,  and  more  where  it  came  from." 

He  did  not  look  at  his  host  as  he  spoke,  but 
seemed  to  address  himself  to  the  statue  of 
France's  latest  Bourbon  king,  which  regarded 
him  with  a  complacent  plaster  smile. 

'*  Monsieur  is  fortunate — it  may  seem  strange 
to  others  that  he  does  not  sell  the  silver  himself, 
if  it  is  to  be  picked  up  in  such  lumps,  with  no  trou- 
ble to  make  the  mine." 

Rourke  looked  at  him  quickly.  "  You  know 
nothing  about  mining,  then?  " 

"I  have  seen  them — these  mines;  nothing 
more." 

Rourke's  lids  dropped,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
7 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

pondering.  '*  I'll  not  deny  that  there's  these  odd 
bits  lying  about  on  the  surface,  mind  you,"  he 
said,  *'  but  the  whole  kit's  not  enough  to  pay  for 
carting.  The  lode's  the  thing,  and  that  takes 
experts  and  tools  and  money.  Courvois,  I'm  will- 
ing to  sell  this  bit  if  you'll  give  me  a  price." 

Courvois  shrugged.    ''  How  much  of  price  ?  '^ 

"  Five  thousand  pounds ! " 

The  Frenchman  smiled  tranquilly :  "  These 
pieces  are  worth  about  twenty  francs  each." 

"  About  that — and  my  price  is  five  thousand 
pounds." 

Courvois  offered  his  companion  a  black  cigar- 
ette, and  lighting  one  himself,  lay  back  in  his 
chair  and  regarded  the  sky  with  an  expression 
of  easy  reflection.  "  You  know  my  friend  Ro- 
quille  long?"  he  asked  quietly. 

Rourke  looked  him  straight  in  the  face. 
"  Not  long.  I  met  him  five  months  since,  and  he 
went  out  two  months  after  that.  It  was  a  kind 
of  community  of  interests  brought  us  together. 
He  was  after  silver,  and  so  was  I.  Beyond  that, 
mind  you,  Courvois,  we  knew  precious  little  of 
each  other.  He  wasn't  what  you  call  a  talker. 
When  you  try  to  get  anything  out  of  him,  he'd 
shut  up,  like  an  oyster  you're  inviting  out  wid 
the  point  of  a  knife.  He  told  me  he  had  great 
trouble  of  some  kind,  and  I  let  it  go  at  that." 

8 


ROURKE 

"  Ah,  he  did  not  impart  to  you  that  he  had 
been  married  ?  " 

''  No,  was  he,  though  ?  Well,  it's  wondering 
I  am  what's  happened  to  the  wife.  It'll  be  a 
sorry  day  for  her,  poor  creature,  when  she  hears 
of  it.  Faith !  he  never  struck  me  as  the  marrying 
kind,  being  surly  like,  and  solitary  in  his  habits." 

"  You  speak  truly."  Courvois  could  not  keep 
the  satisfaction  out  of  his  voice.  "  Tell  me,  then, 
of  his  illness — he  had  not  of  the  delirium,  when 
ill?" 

Rourke  stared  steadily  at  the  ground.  "  Let 
me  think  now — ^no;  I  think  his  mind  only  wan- 
dered once.  Talked  about  you  a  little  then, 
though  nothing  to  speak  of " 

Courvois  raised  himself  a  little  in  his  chair, 
and  his  lips  seemed  to  shape  themselves  for  a 
question.     The  other  went  on  thoughtfully: 

*' '  Rourke,'  he  says  to  me,  '  Johnny  Cour- 
vois is  an  honest  man.'  But  I  told  you  that  be- 
fore  " 

Courvois  sat  back,  and  smiled  a  little.  "  Noth- 
ing more  ?  " 

The  Irishman  smiled,  too :  "  Not  a  thing — 
he  came  back  to  his  senses  then,  and  wanted  qui- 
nine. It  was  a  kind  of  fever,  you  see,  brought  on 
by  living  for  a  while  in  some  lowlands  with  a 
marsh  at  hand." 

9 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

*'  But  that  was  sad.  At  other  times  he 
talked  of  silver,  is  it  not?" 

"  Aye,  that  was  his  hobby.  A  silver  mine 
he  was  always  going  to  find  in  the  mountains. 
He'd  a  bit  of  a  sketch  some  old  Indian  had  given 
him.  Lot  of  marks  on  it;  distances,  scratches, 
and  so  on." 

"You  have  got  it,  this  sketch?" 

"  I  have." 

Courvois  again  made  a  movement.  "  With 
you?" 

Rourke  tapped  his  broad  forehead,  and  his 
large,  humorous  gray  eyes  twinkled  a  little: 
"  In  the  attics  it  is,  and  stowed  away  as  nice  as 
you  please.    I've  got  a  good  memory  to  me." 

Courvois  threw  away  his  cigarette  and  ap- 
peared agitated.  He  put  up  a  hand  to  his  bald 
head,  contracted  his  keen  eyes  till  they  shone  like 
mere  pin  points  of  light,  and  regarded  his  com- 
panion from  under  twitching  eyelids. 

"  If  I  give  to  you  three  thousand  pounds,  you 
will  make  me  the  copy  of  this  sketch,  take  me  to 
the  place,  and  give  it  to  me  in  writing  that  mine 
is  to  be  the  half  share — is  it  not  so?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  not !  Roquille  said  you  were 
an  honest  man,  and  I'm  not  going  to  run  against 
that.  But,  if  you're  honest,  faith!  I'm  cautious. 
The  silver's  there  right  enough,  and  quantity 
enough  to  make  your  mouth  water.    But  I'm  not 

lO 


ROURKE 

going  to  give  the  secret  away  to  any  man  living. 
Five  thousand  pounds  down  is  my  price  for  that 
bit  I  showed  you,  and  for  that  you  can  have  all 
the  stuff.  I  don't  ask  you  to  buy  it,  mind  you; 
I  don't  give  three  penn'orth  of  coppers  who  buys 
it.    There  it  is,  and  you  can  take  it  or  leave  it." 

"  Mais,  monsieur,  how  is  it  for  me  to  know 
that  it  is  there  ?  " 

Rourke  smiled  patiently.  "  See  here,  Cour- 
vois,  if  I  was  anxious  to  do  you,  couldn't  I  salt  a 
real  mine  wid  bits  of  silver,  and  take  you  to  it 
wid  a  bandage  round  your  eyes  ?  And  wouldn't 
I  ask  you  for  the  money  down  on  the  nail?  I 
don't  ask  you  any  such  thing,  my  boy.  I'll  take 
two  hundred  down  now,  and  stay  in  Santola  till 
I  can  make  arrangements.  I'll  have  to  get  some 
of  the  ore  from  the  lode,  and  set  the  assayers  on 
it,  before  machinery's  put  in." 

"  That,  of  course — but  I  must  have  time  to 
consider  the  affair.  I  do  not  throw  the  doubts 
on  your  mine — pas  du  tout.  Mais,  les  affaires 
sont  les  affaires.  One  does  not  even  buy  a  pig 
in  a  pocket.  Look,  Monsieur  Rourke,  I  will  give 
you  " — he  made  a  quick  calculation — ''  yes,  fifty 
pounds  at  once,  and  we  shall  discuss  the  business 
again.  I  appreciate  that  you  do  not  wish  to  re- 
veal your  mine,  but  one  must  have  more  proof. 
Do  we  bargain?  " 

Rourke  nodded:  "  I'll  take  the  fifty  now,  and 

2  II 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

I  must  think  out  some  way  of  letting  you  know, 
d'ye  see?  " 

Courvois  nodded  rapidly.  "  Excuse  me  then 
for  a  moment  while  I  procure  you  the  money," 
he  said  quietly,  and  rising  from  his  chair  passed 
in  through  the  swing  door. 

Rourke  watched  his  retreating  figure  with 
impassive  gravity,  but  when  he  had  disappeared, 
his  humorous  lips  curved  a  little,  and  his  eyes 
wandered  to  the  plaster  statue  of  dead  royalty, 
smiling  amid  a  golden  blaze  of  sunlight,  imper- 
turbably  serene.  He  nodded  once  or  twice  to  the 
complacent  figure. 

"  Aren't  you  proud  of  your  pathriotic  subject, 
Louis,  my  boy  ?  "  he  said  softly.  "  I  suppose  you 
were  an  honest  man  in  your  day,  and  like  to  be 
thinking  that  all  your  loyal  subjects  take  after 
you.  All  of  us  have  our  ideals,  Louis,  and  yours 
isn't  a  bad  one,  if  it's  that.  Pity  that  ideals  and 
reals  don't  fit  always." 

That  good  royalist,  and  honest  man,  Jean 
Courvois,  did  not  go  immediately  to  his  office, 
when  the  swing  door  had  shut  him  off  from  the 
possibly  prying  gaze  of  his  strange  caller.  His 
daughter  had  left  the  counter  and  her  quasi- 
domestic  occupation,  and  had  ensconced  herself 
in  a  little  glass-sided  box,  which  was,  in  effect, 
the  cafe's  receipt  of  custom.  She  might  have  been 
a  fine  woman,  this  Jeanne,  but  for  some  lack  of 

12 


ROURKE 

vitality,  a  certain  slowness  of  circulation,  physi- 
cal and  moral,  a  passivity  of  outlook  and  of  move- 
ment which  took  from  the  human  interest,  she 
might  conceivably  have  attracted  had  Nature 
gifted  her  with  a  spice  of  vivacity.  She  looked  up 
now,  at  the  approach  of  her  father,  with  a  look 
of  dull  curiosity. 

"  You  saw  that  man  who  came  in  ?  "  said 
Courvois,  in  his  quick  French.  "  That  is  a  man  to 
whom  you  must  show  yourself  at  your  best. 
You  understand  me?  You  have  the  figure,  the 
face,  the  age  to  be  charming ;  but  you  must  wake 
yourself.  Your  manner  is  good  for  the  cafe, 
where  the  company  is  mixed  and  possibly  '  ele- 
vated ' ;  but  for  this  affair  you  must  be  bright, 
coquette.  Understand?  And,  in  all,  find  out 
how  well  this  gentleman  knew  M.  Roquille." 

He  walked  away  from  her  before  she  had 
time  to  recover  from  her  surprise,  and  her  big 
black  eyes  followed  him  in  his  passage  to  the 
office  with  an  air  of  puzzledom  that  was  percep- 
tibly sulky.  She  did  not  like  to  be  disturbed. 
Her  heaven  was  a  place  where  everyone  went  at 
a  snail's  pace,  and  there  was  a  penalty  for  ex- 
cessive speed  of  thought. 

Rourke  was  sitting  quietly  in  his  chair,  con- 
templating nothing  with  an  expression  of  vacuity, 
when  Courvois  returned  to  him. 

"  Here,  monsieur,  are  your  fifty  pounds  in 

13 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

local  money.  I  have  put  them  in  a  bag  so  that 
you  may  carry  them  the  more  readily.  What 
plans  are  there  to  you,  may  I  be  permitted  to  ask  ? 
Do  you  wish  to  stay  here,  where  you  can  be  ac- 
commodated at  a  moderate  and  inclusive  tariff, 
or  do  you  desire  that  I  should  indicate  a  com- 
fortable lodging?  The  stranger  finds  the  diffi- 
culties for  himself  in  these  towns." 

Rourke  shook  his  head.  "  Aren't  there  any 
Europeans  beside  yourself  in  this  town?  " 

"  An  American  —  but  rich  —  a  speculator. 
The  rest,  Spanish,  Portuguese,  natives,  and  half- 
breeds.     If  monsieur  is  not  particular " 

"I  am,  bedad!  I'd  sooner  have  devilment 
than  dirt  any  day.  But  I'll  manage  it  somehow, 
having  been  brought  up  to  take  care  of  myself 
ever  since  I  was  knee-high.'' 

"  Well,  monsieur  pleases  himself,"  said  Cour- 
vois. 

Rourke  sat  up  in  his  chair,  and  began  to  put 
on  his  coat.  "  That's  a  fine  girl  you  have  in  be- 
yond," he  said,  with  one  arm  straining  in  a 
sleeve.  "  As  fine-looking  a  woman  as  I've  seen 
in  all  my  born  days — a  thought  sleepy-looking, 
perhaps." 

"  Ma  Mle — Jeanne  ?  She  is  handsome  indeed, 
and  monsieur  may  have  observed  that  the  woman 
who  sleeps  long  conserves  herself,  n'est  ce  pas? 
Your  woman  with  sparkle,  verve,  espieglerie,  she 

14 


ROURKE 

attracts  at  a  glance,  but  when  one  knows  the 
twinkle  of  eye,  the  art,  the  little  fascinations,  one 
wearies  of  her.  Jeanne  is  a  good  girl,  and  some 
day  love  will  waken  her." 

Rourke,  looking  away,  made  a  mouth  at  his 
sentiment,  but  he  did  not  let  Courvois  perceive 
it:  "  Faith!  a  woman's  a  treat  to  me  any  time," 
he  said  slowly.  "  Up  in  the  mountains,  haven't 
I  wearied  for  the  sight  of  one.  Married  I  never 
was,  because  I  never  had  two  coins  to  clap  to- 
gether— but  what's  the  use  of  talking  about  that? 
I  say,  Courvois,  you  wouldn't  mind  me  dropping 
in  now  and  again  to  have  a  chat  with  the  girl  ?  " 

Courvois  repressed  a  smile,  but  nodded  ac- 
quiescence: "  That  is  as  you  please.  For  myself 
I  have  no  objection." 

Rourke  rose  leisurely.  "  Thanks.  I'll  be  go- 
ing now.  I  must  get  a  decent  suit  and  a  poncho, 
and  then  look  for  a  lodging." 

He  nodded  to  his  host,  and  went  in  through 
the  swing  door.  The  cafe  was  fairly  full  now, 
and  a  tall,  lean  fellow,  with  a  toothbrush  mus- 
tache and  sparkling  black  eyes,  was  leaning  over 
the  counter  talking  to  Jeanne.  She  flashed  a 
smile  at  him  as  he  passed,  showing  a  row  of 
white,  even  teeth.  Her  companion  scowled  a 
little,  and  turned  to  look  at  the  Irishman. 

"  You  smile  at  that  sefior,  Jeanne?  "  he  asked 
sharply. 

15 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  But,  yes,  he  is  a  friend  of  mon  pere,''  she 
said. 

Rourke  was  walking  slowly  away  from  the 
cafe,  the  bag  swinging  in  his  hand.  "  I'm  a  big 
fool!  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  And  how  it  is  I'm 
going  to  send  it  there  beats  me  entirely.  I  wish 
I  had  Leon  here — sure  I  do." 

He  turned  to  a  passer-by,  and  addressed  him 
in  fluent  Spanish :  '*  I  understand,  sefior,  that 
there  is  a  rich  American  living  in  Santola. 
Would  you  be  good  enough  to  give  me  his  ad- 
dress?" 

"  Certainly,  sefior.  There  is  but  one  Ameri- 
can, and  he  is  rich.  You  will  find  him  living  in 
the  Calle  Huelva  No.  4." 


CHAPTER   II 

THE    SPECULATOR 

GEORGE  HARVEY  SMITH  occupies  the 
largest  house  on  the  right-hand  side  of 
the  Calle  Huelva  as  you  go  toward  the 
Alameda.  Externally,  it  presents  the  same  fea- 
tures that  characterize  the  other  residences  in 
the  neighborhood.  The  front  is  stuccoed,  in  a 
pleasant  pink,  reminding  one  of  an  anaemic  sun- 
set glow;  the  first  and  second  floors  boast  bal- 
conies of  wrought  iron  covered  with  a  green, 
hard-wearing  paint,  which  is  Smith's  own  inven- 
tion. You  might  pass  the  house  a  thousand  times 
without  being  awakened  to  the  fact  that  it  was 
inhabited  by  an  American,  which  is,  indeed,  an 
impression  which  the  owner  does  not  wish  to 
convey.  The  interior  of  the  house  strikes  a  more 
national  note.  It  is  heated  by  a  furnace,  with 
Smith's  patent  radiators,  lighted  by  electricity — as 
what  comfortable  South  American  house  is  not? 
— and  boasts  a  greater  selection  of  rocking  chairs 
and  cuspidors  than  any  European  dwelling  could 

17 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

show.  Most  of  the  furniture,  and  all  the  conven- 
iences, had  been  conceived  in  Smith's  fertile 
brain.  You  sat  in  a  Smith  chair,  smoked  a  Smith 
pipe,  rang  a  Smith  electric  bell,  and  had  your 
meals  brought  up  from  the  lower  floor  by  a  Smith 
patent  automatic  lift.  And,  if  you  were  lucky, 
or  rich,  or  had  something  to  sell,  you  saw  Smith. 

On  the  evening  following  his  arrival  in  San- 
tola,  Rourke  approached  Calle  Huelva  No.  4  with 
a  good  deal  of  curiosity,  but  without  any  trepida- 
tion. He  had  discarded  his  ragged  garments, 
and  provided  himself  with  a  new  outfit,  which 
struck  the  happy  mean  between  the  Latin  and 
Saxon  garbs.  He  smiled  as  he  walked;  feeling 
that  when  you  held  a  hand  absolutely  without 
honors,  it  behooved  you  to  look  and  act  as  if  all 
your  cards  were  trumps.  He  rang  the  bell  of 
No,  4  as  if  it  belonged  to  him,  and  was  presently 
confronted  by  a  half-breed  servant,  who  regarded 
him  rather  insolently. 

"  Is  George  H.  at  home?  "  Rourke  asked  con- 
fidently. "  Because  if  he  is  I  want  to  see  him, 
Sahef  Tell  him  I'll  keep  him  more  than  a  min- 
ute; perhaps  an  hour." 

"  The  Sefior  Smith  has  dined,  and  at  this 
time  he  will  see  no  one." 

"  Bedad,  he'll  see  me.  It's  in  a  hurry.  The 
house  is  on  fire !  " 

The  servant  threw  out  his  hands,  and  without 
18 


THE    SPECULATOR 

another  word,  ran  down  the  hall  shouting:  "  The 
house  is  burning,  sefior — it  burns !  " 

"  Let  it!  "  said  a  cold  voice  from  a  room  be- 
yond. "  It's  sprinklered,  anyway,  and  insured  to 
the  tiles.  What  d'ye  want  to  worry  me  for  with 
poppycock  like  that?  Get  a  teaspoon  and  put  it 
out  mighty  soon,  or  there'll  be  trouble — and  shut 
that  front  door ;  there's  a  draught  blowing  to  lift 
your  hair." 

Rourke  tiptoed  into  the  hall,  and  went  toward 
the  place  from  which  the  voice  had  come.  Push- 
ing past  the  servant,  who  was  gesticulating  be- 
fore an  open  door,  he  came  upon  a  stout,  clean- 
shaven individual,  who  sat  in  a  rocking  chair, 
sipping  toast  water  from  a  champagne  glass. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Smith  ?  "  he  said  politely. 
"  Glad  you  are  able  to  see  me." 

Smith  looked  up  quietly.  "  Say,  did  you  come 
in  with  the  draught  ?  It  was  blowing  pretty  pow- 
erful just  now.  Are  you  the  fellow  set  the  house 
on  fire?  " 

"Not  yet,"  said  Rourke,  laughing.  "That  was 
only  a  figure  of  speech,  as  you  might  say.  Your 
man  was  bothersome,  and  I  wanted  to  see  you 
particularly." 

Smith  motioned  the  servant  to  retire,  and 
smiled  acidly.  "  Well,  you  do  see  me  particularly, 
though  I  must  say  you  have  a  cold  nerve  to  call 
on  George  H.  after  his  dinner." 

19 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  I'd  have  dined  wid  you,  if  you'd  asked  me. 
Don't  blame  me  for  your  own  hours.  That's 
queer  tipple  you're  at,  by  the  way;  dyspeptic,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

Smith  rose  slowly,  and  fetched  a  box  of  ci- 
gars. "  Sit  down  right  here,  and  let  me  know  all 
about  it,"  he  said,  with  more  cordiality.  "  What 
proposition  have  you  got  in  hand,  anyway?  In- 
vention, or  mine,  or  just  cheek  aching  for  ex- 
pression? " 

Rourke  sat  down  on  a  rocker,  and  contem- 
plated his  brand  new  boots.  "  It's  an  invention 
of  the  devil,"  he  announced. 

"  New  kind  of  hot-air  system,  I  dessay,"  said 
Smith,  cutting  off  the  end  of  a  cigar.  "  You  up 
on  furlough  ?  " 

"  It's  money,"  said  Rourke,  winking.  "  The 
root  of  all  evil." 

"  Do  the  roots  go  far  ?  " 

**  Sure  they  do — deeper  than  I  can  dig,  any- 
way." 

Smith  betrayed  a  trace  of  animation. 
"  That's  bully !    What  d'ye  take  it  in,  mister  ?  " 

"  Silver.  I  struck  it  some  time  ago — rich. 
But  it'll  take  capital." 

"  Never  knew  a  mine  yet  that  didn't.  Nor  a 
man  either — generally  some  one  else's.  Well,  let 
me  hear  about  it;  I  get  tired  soon,  and  the  man 

20 


THE    SPECULATOR 

who  makes  me  feel  tired'd  be  better  dead.  Take 
a  cigar,  and  let  her  hum." 

Rourke  was  quite  aware  that  Smith  was 
studying  him  intently.  He  had  met  this  type  be- 
fore, and  knew  that  it  covered  its  cleverness 
with  a  cloak  of  insouciance.  He  did  not  mini- 
mize the  difficulty  of  the  task  before  him,  just 
because  the  American  whetted  an  indifferent 
humor  upon  him.  "  You're  busy  wondering 
whether  I'm  a  bunco  steerer  or  a  fellow  wid 
something  good  to  sell,"  he  remarked,  begin- 
ning to  smoke.  "  You'll  be  clearer  about  it,  faith ! 
when  I  tell  you  that  the  locality  of  the  mine's  a 
secret." 

"  Keep  it !  I  haven't  any  use  for  secrets. 
The  mines  I  finance  can  be  inspected  any  time." 

Rourke  smoked  thoughtfully.  "  I  want  a  few 
local  people  to  put  a  bit  in  it.  You  never  saw  the 
likes  of  it  for  richness.  And  there's  water  at 
hand  for  power,  a  decent  climate  fit  for  you  to 
live  in,  fairly  good  transport — or  could  be.  I'd 
dispose  of  a  half  share  in  it  cheap." 

"  Money  down  ?  "  asked  Smith,  suspiciously. 

"  Now  what  d'ye  think?  Is  it  me's  going  to 
ask  you  to  put  money  in  a  mine  you  never  saw, 
and  won't  see,  and  ask  you  for  the  money  before 
the  thing  started?  It's  a  bunco  steerer  you've 
decided  I  am,  after  all." 

21 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  Say,  mister,  don't  cavort  like  that — it's  un- 
settling. I'd  admire  to  hear  you  explain  how 
we're  going  to  work  the  mine,  if  I'm  not  to  see 
it.  Oh,  let  up!  Quit  this  foolin'  and  tell  me 
your  price." 

"  Five  thousand  pounds,  to  be  paid  out  of  the 
profits,  George  H.,  that's  good  enough,  isn't  it?  " 

"  How  much  do  you  figure  the  plant  would 
cost — mining  plant  ?  "  asked  Smith,  taking  out  a 
jotter,  and  figuring  rapidly  with  a  pencil.  "  Is  it 
near  the  coast,  or  rail?" 

"  Within  a  hundred  miles  of  a  Trunk  line, 
it  is.  And  I  think  it'd  go  well  enough  at  first 
wid  a  six-stamp  battery,  till  it  developed  a  bit, 
anyway.  You  could  start  in  wid  ten  thousand — 
easy." 

"  Now  you're  talking.  Just  let  me  have  a 
squint  over  the  map  of  the  locality,  and  I  guess 
we  may  fix  it  up  in  time." 

Rourke  got  up,  scratched  his  head,  and  for 
some  minutes  paced  the  floor  in  silence.  "  Don't 
ye  see  what  a  devil  of  a  stew  I'm  in!  "  he  burst 
out  presently.  "  If  I  tell  you  where  the  place  is, 
what's  to  hinder  you  going  and  starting  a  mine 
yourself?  Och!  honesty's  a  good  thing,  but  it 
isn't  common  in  these  parts ;  so,  decent  man  as 
you  may  be,  George  H.,  I'm  not  likely  to  put  my 
foot  on  my  own  head  without  thinking  about  it 
first." 

22 


THE    SPECULATOR 

"  Or  lengthening  out  your  legs  considerably," 
put  in  Smith  dryly.  "  You  make  me  tired. 
What's  your  trouble?  " 

"  Well,  I  can't  get  capital  without  giving  the 
secret  away;  and  I  can't  give  the  secret  away 
without  giving  myself  away." 

"  Have  you  been  shooting  off  your  mouth 
about  this  to  anyone  else,  mister  ?  " 

"  I  did  mention  it  to  Johnny  Courvois — but 
he  won't  let  it  out." 

"  Oh !  the  coffee  slinger  over  to  the  plaza. 
Well,  you  are  an  innocent!  Does  he  know  you 
were  coming  here?" 

"  I  never  mentioned  it  at  all." 

"  Don't !  That  galoot  could  grow  hairs  on  a 
bald  head  with  a  bottle  of  lime  water.  He's  slick, 
is  Johnny.  We'll  freeze  him  right  out,  I  guess! 
He's  too  mighty  ready  with  that  glad  smile  of 
his.  What  you  want  to  do,  sonny,  is  to  interest 
me  in  this  right  away.  I  can  put  up  the  dough, 
if  I  think  it  a  practical  proposition.  Now  then! 
I've  given  you  half  an  hour,  without  hitting  the 
rock.  Are  you  or  are  you  not  going  to  put  me 
on  this  ?  " 

Rourke  shook  his  head,  with  an  uncom- 
fortable expression.  "  Thanks,  I'll  thry  old 
Courvois  after  all.  Maybe  he  won't  ask  so  many 
questions.  I've  struck  it  at  last,  after  years  of 
wandering  up  and  down  looking  for  it ;  so  it  isn't 

23 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

likely  I'm  going  to  lose  it  by  talking.  Sorry  to 
have  wasted  your  time,  Mister  Harvey  Smith." 

"  George  Harvey  Smith,  sonny,"  said  the 
other,  and  put  out  a  hand  to  detain  him.  "  Don't 
get  mad  because  you  don't  find  me  shoveling  dol- 
lars into  your  mouth  as  if  they  were  pastilles. 
You  think  it  over,  and  come  to  see  me  to-morrow. 
Butt  in,  and  exercise  your  teeth  with  me  at  half- 
past  six." 

Rourke  took  his  cigar  from  his  lips,  and  re- 
flected. "  Thanks,"  he  said,  a  little  mollified, 
"  but  it's  clean  impossible.  I'm  going  out  of  town 
to-night,  and  mayn't  be  back  for  a  fortnight." 

"  Oh !  you  are.  Well,  let  me  have  a  squint  at 
you  when  you  come  home  again — see !  We  may 
do  a  deal  over  this.  What,  are  you  going? 
Won't  you  gargle  ?  " 

"  I  don't — much.  But  I'll  look  in  on  you, 
when  I  come  back.    By-bye." 

Rourke  stepped  out  on  an  almost  deserted 
street,  and  an  impression  of  pale  fagades,  in  sil- 
houette against  a  blue-black  sky.  Yellow  squares 
of  light  spoke  to  life  within  the  barred  windows  ; 
from  one  there  came  the  sound  of  a  pianola, 
playing  a  waltz  with  exaggerated  correctness, 
and  the  intermittent  stamping  of  feet.  In  the 
deep  shade  of  the  jutting  balconies  across  the 
street,  he  thought  he  saw  a  woman's  figure, 
drawn  up  against  one  of  the  doorways,  shrouded 

-4 


THE    SPECULATOR 

in  a  black  cloak.  Something  in  the  lines  of  the 
figure  seemed  familiar.  He  did  not  look  again, 
but  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  glow  that  hung 
above  the  plaza. 

This  had  been  the  day  of  a  fiesta,  and  even 
from  where  he  stood  he  could  see  dimly  the  lines 
of  fairy  lamps,  festooned  amid  the  palm  trees ; 
the  brilliant  lighting  of  the  square ;  and  hear  the 
municipal  band  playing  a  swinging  melody, 
against  a  monotone  background  of  voices.  The 
figure  by  the  doorway  stood  very  still,  and  he 
walked  rapidly  ofif  to  the  plaza,  without  appear- 
ing to  have  been  aware  of  its  presence.  Turning 
the  corner  of  the  street,  he  broke  into  a  run, 
and  mingling  with  the  crowded  promenaders, 
made  his  way  to  the  Cafe  Fleur  de  Lys. 

It,  too,  was  crowded.  In  the  entrance,  with 
its  short  vista  of  terrazzo  flooring  under  the 
Moorish  arches,  where  miniature  palms  rioted  in 
ornate  earthen  pots;  in  the  interior,  under  the 
glass  cupola  the  people  thronged,  chatting,  smil- 
ing, staring,  eating,  or  sipping.  Courvois,  cool 
and  fresh  looking  amid  the  heat  and  noise,  con- 
templated his  customers  with  unruffled  good- 
humor.    Rourke  went  up  to  him,  and  nodded. 

"  You're  having  a  fine  time,  Courvois,"  he 
said  softly.  "This  looks  like  business,  bedad! 
But  Where's  Jeanne  to-nio^ht?  " 

Courvois  smiled :  '*  She  is  somewhere  in  the 
25 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

cafe,  monsieur — "  He  bit  his  lip,  and  Rourke 
looked  quickly  round.  Jeanne  had  just  come  into 
the  little  glass-sided  box,  and  was  bending  down. 

"  I'll  go  over  and  pay  my  respects,"  said 
Rourke,  moving  away.  "  I  haven't  seen  her  the 
day." 

Courvois  took  him  by  the  sleeve.  "  I  should 
like  to  present  you  to  a  friend,"  he  said  persua- 
sively. "  He  sits  in  the  entrance,  monsieur.  If 
you  will  come  with  me " 

"  By  and  by,"  said  Rourke  amiably.  "  Lady 
comes  first  with  me.  I'll  be  wid  you  in  a  mo- 
ment," and  with  that  he  released  his  sleeve,  and 
crossed  the  floor. 

Jeanne  looked  up,  with  a  troubled  look  in  her 
eyes,  and  hid  something  under  a  chair.  Rourke 
caught  a  glimpse  of  something  black,  and  shot  a 
swift  glance  at  her  feet. 

"  And  how  are  you^  mademoiselle?  "  he  asked 
affably.     "  Been  out  for  a  stroll  ?  " 

She  shrugged,  and  shook  her  head.  "  No,  I  do 
not  walk  to-night.  It  is  rough  in  the  plaza — the 
crowds,  monsieur,  understands?" 

"  Couldn't  you  speak  Spanish  to  please  me?  " 
he  said  lightly.  "  I  don't  know  a  bit  of  French, 
excepting  '  hon  jour'  '  s'il  voiis  plait,'  and  the 
like  of  that." 

"  If  so  little  pleases  the  sefior,  I  am  delighted 
to  humor  him,"  she  said,  acquiescing.     "  But  he 

26 


THE    SPECULATOR 

is  mistaken  when  he  imagines  that  I  have  been 
out/' 

"Did  I  say  you  had?"  he  asked,  smiling. 
"  I  asked  a  question  only.  Don't  you  allow  peo- 
ple to  ask  you  questions,  Jeanne  ? " 

She  winced  at  the  use  of  her  name,  but  re- 
covering her  equanimity,  and  endeavoring  to  act 
upon  her  father's  instructions,  looked  at  him 
from  under  arch  lids :  "  It  depends  so  much  upon 
the  question.  There  are  some  questions  that 
mean  so  little,  and  others " 

"  That  mean  so  much,"  he  hinted.  He  was 
a  susceptible  man,  and  Jeanne  looked  rather  daz- 
zling to-night.  "  That's  the  kind  of  question  a 
man  might  put  to  you,  I'm  thinking,  without 
needing  much  driving  to  it.  Faith !  you're  look- 
ing charming  to  the  last  degree  this  evening. 
And  that's  the  truth." 

The  color  came  to  her  face :  "  The  sefior  has 
not  forgotten  the  manner  in  which  to  pay  compli- 
ments, even  if  he  has  been  living  in  the  moun- 
tains," she  murmured. 

"  There's  some  beautiful  things  in  the  moun- 
tains, Jeanne." 

"  I  will  take  the  senor's  word." 

*'  Scenery,"  said  Rourke,  with  a  twinkling 
eye. 

"Ah!  no  doubt!" 

"  But  if  I  wasn't  sick  of  scenery  coming  here, 

3  27 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

no  matter.  Sure,  it  takes  something  better  than 
a  starving  man  to  admire  trees,  and  rocks,  and 
grass " 

"  You  came  to  tell  my  father  of  the  death  of 
that  poor  M.  Roquille?  All  the  way  from  the 
mountains." 

He  smiled  slightly.  "  Well,  not  altogether. 
You  see  we  were  partners,  but  hadn't  known  each 
other  long.  I  can't  get  on  well  with  people  who 
won't  talk,  Jeanne.  Roquille  was  one  of  them; 
and  what's  your  tongue  given  you  for,  if  it  wasn't 
to  wag?  You  might  as  well  be  a  dummy  or  a 
grave-digger.  Old  Roquille  wasn't  a  bad  sort, 
but  the  tightest-mouthed  fellow  I  ever  met." 

"  Perhaps  his  wife  talked  for  both?  " 

"  Now  isn't  that  funny !  Your  father  was 
talking  about  his  wife.  I  knew  he  was  in  some 
trouble." 

"  You  are  complimentary." 

"  Come  now,  Jeanne !  You  women  are  always 
making  trouble — in  our  hearts  or  our  pockets — 
somewhere  anyway,  and  bless  you  all  for  it.  It 
was  Roquille  told  me  of  your  father,  by  the 
way " 

Jeanne  started,  and  smiled  at  him  stiffly. 

"  I  was  looking  for  an  honest  man  to  help 
me  wid  a  bit  of  business.  I  didn't  tell  Roquille 
that,  for  fear  he'd  think  it  some  reflection  on  him, 
but  one  day  when  he  was  ill  he  sat  up  in  his  ham- 

28 


THE    SPECULATOR 

mock,  and  said,  '  Johnny  Courvois's  an  honest 
man  ' — just  like  that.  He  wouldn't  say  more, 
but  then,  I  never  expected  it  of  him.  If  you 
wanted  to  know  anything,  he'd  shut  up  like  a 
locked  safe  with  the  key  inside  it." 

Courvois  approached  softly :  "  It  is  too  late  to 
present  you  to  my  friend  now,"  he  said.  "  He 
has  just  gone  out." 

"  Then  I'll  be  going,  too,"  said  Rourke. 
"  I'm  tired  and  all,  and  it's  time  I  was  in  my  bed. 
Well,  a  happy  good  night  to  you,  mademoiselle; 
dormez  bien,  Courvois." 

He  walked  down  the  cafe,  only  turning  as  he 
passed  under  the  arch  to  look  back  swiftly. 
Courvois  stood  beside  Jeanne,  and  tapped  rapidly 
on  her  shoulder  with  an  angry  finger.  Her  face 
wore  a  passive  expression,  but  her  mouth  was  set 
in  a  sulky  curve.  Then  he  strode  out  of  the  cafe, 
and  went  quickly  across  the  square. 


CHAPTER    III 

UNCERTAINTY 

HONEST  Courvois  detested  clumsiness. 
Himself  always  deft,  bland,  and  diplo- 
matic, he  was  apt  to  regard  people  who 
were  lacking  in  these  useful  and  ingratiating 
qualities  as  little  better  than  clogs  upon  the  great 
wheels  of  what  we  call  Life.  Even  the  paternal 
relation  in  which  he  stood  to  Jeanne  did  not  blind 
him  to  the  fact  that  she  was  clumsy.  He  told 
her  so  in  an  irritable  voice,  and  tapped  the  irate 
forefinger,  which  Rourke's  departing  glance  had 
taken  in.  to  drive  home  his  points. 

''  It  would  have  been  better  not  to  have  en- 
tered at  all !  "  he  said.  "  He  noticed  that  you 
were  not  here  when  he  came  in ;  he  asked  for  you, 
and  when  you  did  come  in  he  saw  you." 

Jeanne  winced  at  this  damning  indictment, 
and  sat  down  upon  the  chair,  spreading  her  skirt 
to  hide  the  hint  of  black  which  peeped  out  be- 
neath. "  After  all,  I  asked  him  about  the  wife 
of  Roquille." 

30 


UNCERTAINTY 

He  snorted  and  shrugged.     '"  Et  puisf  " 

'*  He  does  not  know  the  woman.  It  appears 
that  Roquille  was  a  silent  man." 

Courvois  fitted  that  in  with  his  own  experi- 
ence, but  was  still  doubtful — with  that  annoying 
doubt  of  the  man  who  wishes  to  believe.  He  was 
a  man  who  prided  himself  upon  his  subtlety,  for- 
getting that  over-elaboration  ruins  many  a  prom- 
ising scheme.  There  were  only  two  sides  to  this 
situation:  either  the  Irishman  was  an  honest 
prospector,  who  had  come  across  a  paying  claim ; 
or  he  was  an  artful  scoundrel  wishing  to  raise 
cash  without  working  for  it.  He  had  evidently 
known  Roquille,  and  on  that  account  Courvois 
was  disposed  to  treat  with  him.  Beyond  the  pre- 
liminary payment  of  fifty  pounds,  nothing  had 
been  done  to  clinch  a  bargain.  Was  the  silver 
there,  or  was  it  not?  Rourke  would  give  no 
particulars,  and  without  particulars  it  was  impos- 
sible for  a  sensible  man  to  invest.  Suppose,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  there  was  silver  in  paying 
quantity;  what  a  pity  to  let  the  chance  slip. 
Rourke  had  visited  Smith.  Was  he  going  to  play 
a  double  game;  or  compare  offers,  and  take  the 
highest  bid?  The  American  was  not  a  man  to 
finance  a  wild-cat  scheme.  What  he  took  up  paid 
hand  over  fist.  And  then  Rourke  had  known 
Roquille. 

Courvois  left  his  daughter.  He  was  very 
31 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

angry  about  something.  He  began  to  think  he 
had  thrown  his  money  away.  And  he  felt  mor- 
ally certain  that  when  Rourke  came  to  him  again, 
more  money  would  follow  the  first.  He  would 
take  no  risks.  He  knew  these  touches  of  malaria, 
and  the  vision  of  Roquille,  muttering  about  "  hon- 
est Courvois,"  and  heaven  knows  what  else,  agi- 
tated him.  He  went  to  his  office,  put  on  his  hat, 
and  set  out  to  interview  a  Spanish  doctor  in  the 
Calle  Huelva.  He  was  an  influential  man,  and 
was  not  kept  waiting. 

"  Good  evening,  Seiior  Courvois — you  call 
late.     You  are  not  ill,  I  trust  ?  " 

"  But  no,  it  is  merely  for  advice.  Suppose 
that  a  man  was  dying  of  malarial  fever.  Would 
he  talk  wildly — be  delirious  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sefior ;  in  such  cases  there  is  sometimes 
delirium;  but  often  quite  slight.  That  is  in  the 
second,  or  hot  stage.  Death  might  come  from 
the  complications  induced  by  repeated  attacks." 

"  Many  thanks,  but  with  regard  to  the  de- 
lirium— that  is  not  generally  severe?  It  might 
be  absent  altogether  ?  " 

''  That  is  true.  But  usually  there  is  delirium 
of  a  slight  nature — nothing  to  speak  of.  Is  that 
all?" 

Courvois  nodded,  paid  a  fee,  and  bade  him 
farewell.  He  went  on,  down  the  street,  to  the 
house  where  Smith  lived,  and  sent  in  a  card.  The 

32 


UNCERTAINTY 

American   was   an   occasional   customer   at   his 
cafe. 

"  The  sefior  is  just  about  to  retire,"  said  the 
servant. 

Courvois  was  cursing  himself  for  coming.  A 
visit  at  this  hour  was  likely  to  make  Smith  sus- 
picious. He  wished  that  he  had  not  given  his 
name.  He  was  glad  now  of  the  chance  to  retire 
without  coming  to  closer  quarters,  and  moved 
hastily  back. 

"  A  thousand  pardons.  I  will  not  disturb 
him.    I  was  passing,  and  ventured  to  call." 

He  backed  away  in  a  worse  temper  than 
ever.  Smith  had  a  Hair  for  a  speculation,  and 
would  try  to  worm  the  secret  out  of  him.  Rourke 
had  been  closeted  with  the  speculator  for  almost 
an  hour.  What  had  passed  between  them  in  that 
time?  The  very  fact  that  he  might  have  sub- 
mitted his  project  to  Smith  spoke  to  its  genuine- 
ness. Courvois  began  to  doubt  if  he  would  not 
have  done  better  to  settle  the  affair  out  of  hand  ; 
yet  it  would  be  a  preposterous  thing  to  pay  five 
thousand  pounds  for  the  right  to  mine  metal 
which  might  only  exist  in  the  Irishman's  imagi- 
nation. 

When  he  returned  to  the  cafe,  Jeanne's  friend 
had  arrived  and  was  talking  earnestly.  He  had 
made  Jeanne  more  sulky  than  usual,  and  Cour- 
vois thought  it  might  be  the  man's  jealousy.    The 

33 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

fellow  was  a  rich  half-breed,  and,  though  not  the 
girl's  novio,  still  sufficiently  in  the  running  to 
make  trouble.  He  went  by  the  name  of  Mitad, 
and  owned  a  hacienda  near  Escabar,  from  which 
he  often  rode  in  to  have  a  chat  with  Jeanne. 

Courvois  walked  restlessly  about  the  cafe, 
stopping  here  and  there  to  exchange  greetings 
with  an  old  habitue.  He  was  wondering  if 
Rourke  would  visit  him  in  the  morning  to  con- 
tinue the  negotiations.  He  could  not  turn  his 
thoughts  from  that  potential  silver  mine.  He 
loved  money,  and  the  making  of  it.  The  cafe 
had  once  loomed  large,  but  now  he  was  longing 
for  a  larger  horizon,  greater  possibilities  of  get- 
ting rich.  He  felt  that  he  had  financial  genius, 
constrained  perforce  by  the  narrow  circle  in 
which  he  moved. 

Under  the  stress  of  these  thoughts,  he  found 
himself  unable  to  concentrate  his  mind.  At  one 
moment  he  thought  of  speaking  to  Jeanne,  telling 
her  that  Rourke  was  a  fraud,  the  mine  a  chimera, 
and  himself  a  man  of  perspicacity  betrayed  into 
parting  with  his  money,  but  now  steeled  against 
a  swindler's  wheedling.  But  that  would  not  do. 
He  wanted  to  believe;  and  the  nugget  of  virgin 
silver  seemed  to  grow  heavy  in  his  pocket,  as  if 
wishful  to  persuade  him  that  it  was  only  an  ear- 
nest of  the  wealth  to  come.  In  the  seclusion  of 
his  office,  he  took  it  out  and  looked  at  it ;  scratched 

34 


UNCERTAINTY 

it  with  his  pen-knife,  and  threw  it  violently  from 
him.  It  struck  the  floor  with  a  thud,  and  rolled 
clumsily  under  a  desk  standing  in  a  corner.  Cour- 
vois  stared  for  a  minute  into  vacancy,  then  went 
down  on  his  knees,  and  dusted  himself  thorough- 
ly in  his  fumbling  to  recover  the  precious  lump. 

He  looked  at  it  with  greedy  eyes,  and  restor- 
ing it  to  his  pocket,  went  into  the  cafe,  and  across 
to  where  Jeanne  and  her  lover  were  talking. 
''  Ah,  Sefior  Mitad,"  he  said  ponderously,  "  how 
does  the  world  go  with  you  ?  " 

Mitad  pulled  at  his  toothbrush  mustache,  and 
rolled  his  eyes. 

"  There  is  always  something  to  displease  a 
man,"  he  said,  "  but  nothing  important  happens." 

Courvois  lowered  his  voice,  and  plunged  into 
his  subject.  "  There  is  an  Irishman  who  has  late- 
ly come  to  live  in  Santola,"  he  said.  "  I  imagine 
that  you  have  seen  him.  Well,  sefior,  I  am  sus- 
picious of  that  fellow,  me.  I  do  not  know  where 
he  comes  from,  nor  what  his  business  is " 

"  That  Rourke !  "  said  Mitad,  tugging  at  his 
mustache,  and  looking  fierce. 

"  But  yes,  that  is  his  name — I  wish  it  were 
possible  to  watch  him.  It  is  impossible  for  me — 
since  he  knows  me,  but " 

Mitad  threw  a  glance  at  Jeanne,  and  surprised 
a  look  of  interest  in  her  calm  eyes.  Courvois 
fixed  the  point  by  staring,  too,  and  making  a  pre- 

35 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

tense  of  biting  his  lip.  Jeanne  looked  confused, 
and  felt  resentful  that  her  father  should  encour- 
age her  lover  in  his  jealousy. 

"  I  thought  he  was  your  friend,  mon  pere?  " 
she  said  defiantly. 

"  Watch  your  friends  first,"  he  said,  forcing 
a  smile.  "  A  man  who  is  secure  in  his  friends  can 
afiford  to  ignore  his  enemies." 

Mitad  was  simple  enough  to  take  this  for 
sincerity,  and  above  all  anxious  to  stand  well  with 
the  girl's  father.  Yet  he  knew  there  was  some- 
thing more  in  the  affair  than  met  the  eye.  What 
that  something  was  he  hoped  to  learn  from  Jeanne 
when  she  had  got  over  her  sulky  mood. 

"  If  I  can  assist  you,"  he  said  quickly.  ''  If 
you  tell  me  where  he  lives,  I  can  find  out  for  you 
what  he  does,  and  where  he  goes." 

Courvois  patted  him  on  the  shoulder,  beam- 
ing. "  That  is  very  amiable.  It  may  not  be  nec- 
essary to  watch  him  long;  perhaps,  only  in  the 
event  of  his  leaving  the  town,  and  naturally  the 
one  who  undertakes  this  duty  must  proceed  with 
caution." 

"  Where  does  he  live,  sefior  ?  " 

"  I  understand  he  has  taken  a  lodging  in  the 
Calle  Passado  9.  You  know  it — running  from 
the  Calle  Huelva  to  the  Calle  San  Simon.  I  of- 
fered to  receive  him  here,  but  he  refused." 

Mitad  nodded.    ''  Leave  it  to  me.    If  he  leaves 

36 


UNCERTAINTY 

the  town  I  shall  be  a  shadow  to  him.  You  can 
trust  my  discretion." 

Courvois  looked  across  the  cafe.  "  Who's 
this?  "  he  asked,  staring  at  a  man  who  had  just 
entered.  "  I  believe  it  is  the  landlord  of  that  fel- 
low— a  water-seller,"  he  added  a  moment  after- 
wards. 

The  man  came  up  as  he  spoke,  bowed,  and 
presented  a  letter :  "  From  the  Senor  Rourke,"  he 
observed,  and  gazed  about  him  with  frank  curi- 
osity. "  He  told  me  to  deliver  it  to  you.  I  will 
wait,  in  case  there  should  be  an  answer." 

Courvois  snatched  the  letter,  and  tore  open  the 
envelope.  But  before  he  began  to  read,  he  had 
wit  enough  to  order  a  waiter  to  pour  a  glass  of 
wine  for  the  messenger. 

"  Dear  Monsieur  :  I  am  sorry  I  couldn't  see 
you  to-day,  and  more  sorry  I  can't  see  you  to- 
morrow, or  the  next  day.  Indeed,  I  am  going 
away  for  a  fortnight  on  business.  All  the  same, 
I  shall  be  back  and  look  you  up  some  time  after 
that.  I  might  have  called  to  say  an  revoir,  but 
thought  you  might  be  out,  and  have  no  time  to 
spare.  You  might  take  this  as  a  sort  of  valedic- 
tory epistle,  and  give  my  best  respects  to  Mile. 
Jeanne.  Looking  forward  to  our  next  meeting. 
"  I  remain,  yours  to  command, 

"  Desmond  Rourke." 

37 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

There  was  no  mention  of  the  mine,  and  Cour- 
vois  had  difficulty  in  restraining  his  rage.  But 
the  messenger  stood  within  earshot,  sipping  his 
wine,  and  staring  in  these  unfamihar  surround- 
ings, and  it  would  be  unwise  to  let  him  know  that 
the  Irishman's  departure  held  any  special  or 
unpleasant  significance.  He  forced  himself  to 
smile  as  he  turned  to  the  man. 

"  Ah,  the  sehor  has  left  town.  Was  he  oit 
foot?" 

**  No,  seiior ;  he  had  bought  a  horse  this  after- 
noon, and  rode  away,  it  may  be  three  hours  ago." 

"  Three  hours — did  he  pay  you  for  your 
rooms  ?  " 

'*  Truly,  for  a  fortnight,  when  he  will  return. 
He  talked  of  some  mine  which  it  was  necessary 
he  should  see." 

Courvois'  hopes  sprang  high  again.  There 
must  be  something  in  all  this ;  some  grain  of  truth 
at  least.  Jeanne  and  Mitad  looked  at  each  other 
in  perplexity,  but  the  latter  thought  he  saw  a  way 
to  ingratiate  himself  with  the  patron. 

"  I  can  follow  him,"  he  whispered.  "  He  is 
probably  mounted  on  some  screw,  and  will  go 
slowly — what  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Say?  Nom  d'une  pipe!  You  can  follow  a 
man  who  has  left  town  three  hours  ago,  in  the 
darkness  and  in  an  unknown  direction.  You 
must  be  an  angel  or  a  fool,  Seiior  Mitad,"  Cour- 

38 


UNCERTAINTY 

vois  observed  with  sullen  sarcasm.  "  But,  your 
pardon,  you  would  do  your  best,  I  believe." 

Mitad's  growling  scowl  faded,  and  he  showed 
his  teeth  in  a  smile.  "  What  does  your  woman's 
wit  make  of  this,  sefiorita  ?  "  he  asked. 

Jeanne  looked  at  the  water-seller,  and  raised 
her  eyebrows.  "  If  he  comes  back  you  might  try- 
that  person,"  she  said  softly. 

"  Tiens!  We  will  try  him,  indeed.  Here, 
'  Quien  quiere  agiia ' — I  have  the  misfortune  not 
to  know  your  name — do  you  like  to  earn  money 
without  working  for  it  ?  " 

The  water-seller  wiped  his  lips,  and  grinned 
appreciatively :  "  The  sefior  has  touched  upon  my 
weakness." 

'*  Then  you  can  earn  twenty  pesos  when  the 
Sefior  Rourke  returns.  Simply  by  letting  me 
know  when  he  thinks  of  leaving  the  town  again, 
and  in  which  direction  he  goes." 

"  Certainly,  or  perhaps  it  would  be  better  for 
me  to  ask  the  sefior  to  inform  you  himself." 

"  I  will  give  you  thirty  pesos,  then." 

"  Si,  sefior.  Ten  pesos  down,  and  twenty 
when  I  bring  you  the  information." 

Courvois  nodded,  and  motioned  to  the  man  to 
follow  him  to  the  office.  When  both  had  disap- 
peared, Mitad  turned  to  Jeanne.  It  seemed  to 
him  that,  as  affairs  were  going  at  present,  he 
might  expend  his  jealous  fury  in  some  more  prof- 

39 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

itable  way  than  could  be  found  by  questioning- 
Jeanne  as  to  this  presumptive  rival. 

"  What  has  this  Irishman  done  to  your  fa- 
ther ?  "  he  asked,  smiling,  and  fondling  his  mus- 
tache. "  I  thought  he  was  his  very  good  friend, 
but  it  seems  otherwise.  Do  you  know  anything 
of  him?" 

Jeanne  raised  her  indolent  eyes  with  weary 
indifference.  **  Me,  what  should  I  know?  My 
father  does  not  talk  to  me  of  his  afifairs.  The 
gentleman  was  a  partner  of  my  father's  old 
friend,  M.  Roquille,  and  came  here  to  say  that  his 
partner  had  died  of  fever.  If  there  is  anything 
more  in  it  than  that  I  do  not  know  it." 

Mitad  scowled.  "  You  will  not  tell,  sefiorita. 
Well,  it  will  be  known.  I,  Jose  Mitad,  will  know 
it.  There  will  be  trouble  for  this  Rourke  if  he 
calls  here  too  frequently." 

"  Trouble  ?  I  think  you  are  half  savage. 
Monsieur  Jose.  He  looks  well  able  to  take  care 
of  himself;  and  that  is  not  my  part — no.  You 
do  me  the  honor  to  be  jealous.  And,  well,  I  am 
tired  of  your  jealousy.  Perhaps  soon  I  shall  be 
tired  of  you.    Do  not  be  too  sure." 

"  I  shall  see  to  that !  "  he  said,  turning  away. 
"  Good  night." 

"  Will  you  not  wait,  and  concert  a  plan  with 
the  water-seller  ?  "  she  called  after  him  softly. 
"He  comes  now." 

40 


UNCERTAINTY 

He  set  his  head  back,  and  went  out.  A  waiter 
had  taken  Jeanne's  place  at  the  receipt  of  custom, 
and  the  cafe  was  beginning-  to  empty.  The  wa- 
ter-seller went  out  with  the  rest,  a  black  cigar 
rolling  between  his  teeth,  cocked  atilt  in  a  con- 
fident way.     Mitad  was  waiting  for  him  outside. 

On  the  following  morning,  Courvois  had 
strolled  out  across  the  plaza  when  he  came  across 
George  Smith.  He  would  have  hurried  past,  but 
the  American  came  up  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Well,  Musher  Courvois,  you're  looking 
purty  bright  and  spry  this  morning.  How's 
trade?" 

"  Very  fair,  monsieur— not  bad." 

"That's  bully!  My  blackamoor  was  telling 
me  you  called  last  night.  What's  your  trouble, 
anyway?  " 

Courvois  did  not  bite  his  lip,  though  he  wanted 
to  badly.  He  smiled  instead,  and  waved  his  hand 
airily.  "  Oh,  it  was  nothing — nothing  at  all. 
We  talked  of  floating  the  cafe,  you  will  remem- 
ber, and  I  had  an  idea  that  you  might  wish  to 
reopen  the  question." 

"  I  surely  don't!  "  said  Smith.  "  I  reckon  it 
pays  you  well  enough,  but  I'm  mighty  certain  it 
wouldn't  pay  you  and  me  and  a  kit  of  others. 
No,  your  cafe  isn't  my  meat.  If  you'd  brought 
me  a  mine  now;  well,  we'd  talk." 

"  Ah,  a  mine,"  said  Courvois,  stroking  his 

41 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

cheek  thoughtfully,  and  seeming  to  consider  the 
possibilities  presented  by  Smith's  suggestion.  His 
own  unspoken  thought  was  that  this  fellow  knew 
something,  and  was  trying  to  pump  him.  At  all 
events,  he  would  be  on  his  guard.  "  I  suppose, 
monsieur,  you  would  develop  such  a  proposition, 
if  I  had  one  to  lay  before  you  ?  " 

Smith  lit  a  cigar,  blew  an  enormous  ring  of 
smoke,  and  watched  it  wreathe  upward  and  dis- 
perse in  the  clear  morning  air :  "  Well,  sir,  I 
reckon  I  might.  Being,  as  you  might  say,  be- 
calmed in  the  matter  of  mines  at  the  present  min- 
ute, I  don't  say  but  I  wouldn't  feel  inclined  to 
look  into  it." 

Courvois  saw  that  he  had  heard  something, 
and  was  determined  to  keep  it  dark.  Smith  was 
denying  by  inference  that  he  had  any  knowledge 
of  Rourke's  find;  a  sure  sign  that  he  was  on  the 
track  of  it. 

"  Suppose  some  one's  been  putting  you  up  to 
a  good  thing?  "  he  added. 

Courvois  shrugged:  "Me,  no.  I  think  I 
would  find  money  for  such  a  thing  myself,  if  I 
had  been  fortunate  enough  to  hear  of  one." 

Smith  mustered  up  his  deductive  faculties,  and 
tried  another  tack.  "  See  here,  Courvois,"  he 
began,  looking  as  honest  and  straightforward  as 
he  might.  "  I  was  fool  enough  to  guess  you 
might  have  been  got  at  by  a  bunco  steerer  that 

42 


UNCERTAINTY 

called  on  me  yesterday.  Seemed  just  the  kind  of 
feller'd  be  toting  something  of  the  sort  round. 
He  tried  to  touch  me  for  a  few  yesterday,  but  I 
stalled  him  off  at  onst." 

"Money?"  asked  Courvois,  and  moved  a 
little. 

Smith  saw  that  he  had  hit  the  mark.  "  Right ! 
I  heard  he  had  been  up  to  your  cafe  on  the  same 
job." 

'*  No,  no."  Courvois  denied  it  categorically. 
"  That  Monsieur  Rourke  came  to  tell  me  of  the 
death  of  an  old  friend — so  he  told  you  of  a 
mine  ?  " 

"  Place  where  one  might  be,  sure.  Mighty 
fine  story  he  handed  me,  but  not  quite  fine  enough 
for  George  H.  No,  sir,  the  man  who  touches 
George  H.  for  a  dollar  must  pan  out  one  hun- 
dred and  ten  cents  every  time.  That's  me — good 
and  spry,  but  cast-iron  all  over,  with  agate  bear- 
ings, warranted  to  stand  wear.  You  take  that 
from  me,  sonny;  the  Rourke  merchant  went 
away  as  if  he'd  been  bitten,  and  took  his  mine 
with  him." 

He  overdid  it  a  bit,  and  Courvois  felt  that  his 
morning  had  not  been  wasted.  Still,  he  cursed 
the  Irishman  for  running  away  and  bringing  the 
negotiations  to  a  standstill. 

"  Then  you  have  not  heard   that   monsieur 
went  away  last  night?  " 
4  43 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  Yes,  I  did,  some." 

The  American  evidently  suspected  that  Cour- 
vois  had  come  to  terms.  That  explained  his  anx- 
iety to  know  something  of  Rourke's  relations 
with  the  cafe  proprietor. 

"  If  he  has  found  a  silver  mine,  he  is  a  big 
fool,"  said  the  latter,  smiling.  "  I  met  the  water- 
seller  who  lodges  him,  and  he  said  the  Irishman 
had  been  talking  to  him  of  a  mine." 

"  See  here,  he  couldn't  want  to  touch  the  sky- 
juice  merchant  for  anything — "  Smith  began,  but 
stopped.  "  He's  op'ning  his  mouth  wide  enough 
anyhow." 

Honors  were  easy.  Smith  wouldn't  pay  to  see 
Courvois'  hand,  and  Courvois  would  not  play  a 
card  till  he  could  look  over  his  opponent's  shoul- 
der. When  two  men  of  their  type  start  bluffing 
the  game  becomes  unduly  protracted.  They  were 
suspicious  of  Rourke,  and  suspicious  of  each 
other.  Courvois  was,  if  anything,  the  more 
eager,  for  Rourke  was  the  friend  of  the  man  who, 
in  his  delirium,  had  apostrophized  "  Honest 
Courvois."  The  confidence  to  a  disinterested  wa- 
ter-seller staggered  them  both.  It  was  indiscreet, 
and  possibly  dangerous.  Santola  boasted  a  few 
rough  characters,  who  might  think  it  worth  their 
while  to  waylay  a  man  carrying  the  secret  of  a 
silver  mine  in  his  pockets. 

44 


UNCERTAINTY 

"  Mon  ami,"  laughed  Courvois,  "  one  who 
opens  his  mouth  wide  may  catch  something." 

"  Trouble,  sure.    No  flies,  sonny." 

"  Well,  he  did  not  mistake  me  for  a  fly,  though 
he  paid  you  that  compliment.  He  tells  me  of  the 
death  of  his  friend,  that  is  all.  A  very  sad  affair 
—triste." 

"  You're  bearing  up  well,"  said  Smith,  iron- 
ically.    "  I  bet  it's  made  you  feel  good." 

"  One  must  live.  Eh,  bien,  Monsieur  Smith, 
I  must  return  to  my  cafe.  You  will  oblige  me  by 
letting  me  know  if  this  Irishman  returns. 
Adieu." 

Smith  watched  him  as  he  walked  away,  and 
a  cunning  smile  came  to  his  lips.  "  You  haven't 
touched  it  yet,  Mr.  Johnny  Courvois,"  he  said  un- 
der his  breath,  "  and,  smart  and  all  as  you  think 
yourself,  George  H.  will  be  on  to  that  lot  while 
you're  hunting  around  for  a  shoe-lace.  I'd  ad- 
mire to  see  that  fool  Irishman  touch  you  for  a 
heap,  and  scoot,  so  you  couldn't  see  him  for  dust. 
That's  as  soon  as  I've  turned  him  inside  out, 
sonny." 

Then  he,  too  turned  away,  and  strolled  on 
leisurely  toward  the  Alameda. 


CHAPTER    IV 

LEON 

HALFWAY  down  the  track  leading  from 
a  high  pass  on  the  sierra  lying  west  of 
Santola,  a  tall  mulatto  stood  looking 
across  the  distant  valley  that  lay  below  his  feet 
and  quivered  in  a  transparent  heat  haze.  Behind 
and  above  him  the  mountain  climbed  in  high  re- 
ceding steps,  from  the  lower  summits,  glowing 
like  white  steel  in  the  morning  sun,  to  the  peak 
of  snow-capped  Apotica  that  seemed  a  jagged 
ivory  fang  gnawing  the  sky.  This  was  a  place 
of  rocks;  they  lay  on  either  hand  in  an  amor- 
phous jumble,  blunt,  ragged,  smooth  and  spike- 
like, forming  natural  walls  to  the  track,  piled  up 
in  buttresses  on  the  mountain's  flank.  Scant 
vegetation  grew  in  the  crevices,  or  hung  desper- 
ately from  the  faces  of  the  clififs;  rough  grass 
grew  in  tufts  in  the  exiguous  shade  cast  by 
gnarled  shrubs ;  but,  for  the  most  part,  the  man- 
tle of  growth  stopped  dead  halfway  up  the  steep, 
so  that  the  mountain  resembled  a  giant  who  has 

46 


LEON 

half  withdrawn  himself  from  bed  and  gazes  ston- 
ily at  the  green  quilt  still  draping  his  feet. 

The  mulatto  looked  haggard  in  the  revealing 
sun.  His  cheeks  sagged,  his  eyes  were  very  big 
and  black,  in  a  face  that  was  faded  to  an  un- 
healthy yellow  tint.  One  could  see  that  he  had 
gone  hungry  of  late,  and  the  pessimism  of  his 
expression  told  that  he  anticipated  nothing  bet- 
ter for  the  future.  He  waited  immovable,  lean- 
ing on  a  rock,  his  brown  hand  shading  his  eyes 
from  the  fierce  downward  light.  His  lips  moved 
constantly,  for  he  was  chewing  a  piece  of  hard 
tobacco,  and  it  was  his  last,  with  the  additional 
discomfort  that  he  had  not  smoked  for  three 
days. 

An  hour  passed  without  incident,  and  he 
moved  his  feet  restlessly.  Then  something,  a 
spot,  a  speck,  moving  far  below  caught  his  eye, 
and  focused  his  excited  attention.  He  used  some 
thick  exclamation,  and  moistened  his  full  lips 
with  his  tongue,  still  staring  intently  at  the 
diminutive  object,  which  hardly  seemed  to  pro- 
gress at  all,  but  was  in  reality  coming  upward  at 
a  fast  walk.  The  pass  to  which  the  track  led  was 
never  used  by  the  arrieros  with  their  mule  trains. 
A  superstition  had  its  locale  there ;  some  story  of 
a  phantom  dog  which  centered  on  the  desolate 
place,  and  made  it  taboo  to  the  ignorant  mule- 
teers.   This,  then,  must  be  a  stranger,  or  the  man 

47 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

for  whom  the  mulatto  waited.  Leon,  for  that 
was  his  name  (the  very  Leon  spoken  of  by 
Rourke) ,  was  desperate.  If  the  newcomer  proved 
to  be  a  stranger,  he  must  serve.  No  man  would 
traverse  the  sierra  without  a  supply  of  food ;  and 
assuredly  he  should  not  pass  without  having  toll 
levied  upon  his  store.  Leon  drew  a  knife  from 
under  his  poncho,  and  laid  the  blade  up  his  fore- 
arm. 

The  speck  gradually  magnified,  and  became 
distinct.  It  was  that  of  a  man  astride  a  pack 
mule,  but  unidentifiable  as  yet,  in  a  shrouding 
poncho,  and  sombrero  pulled  over  the  brows  as  a 
shade  from  the  glare.  As  he  drew  nearer,  Leon 
sidled  into  a  recess  among  the  rocks,  and  grinned 
sardonically.  His  was  not  a  particularly  savage 
nature,  and  he  found  it  necessary  to  stimulate 
anger  against  the  man  who  was  approaching — 
the  man  well  fed,  approaching  the  man  who  was 
desperate.  From  his  concealment  he  peered  out, 
keeping  steady  watch  upon  the  winding  track. 

Then  a  grunt  or  a  cry  came  from  him,  and  he 
threw  his  knife  up.  The  sunrays  glinted  upon 
the  broad  blade,  and  the  tinkle  of  its  fall  was 
echoed  with  a  bell-like  persistency  by  the  rocks. 
He  sprang  out  and  hailed. 

''Hola,sehorl    Hola!" 

Rourke  rode  alongside,  and  slinging  himself 
down  from  the  mule,  smacked  him  on  the  shoul- 

48 


LEON 

der.  "  Och !  you  old  ragamuffin,  and  is  it  you  ? 
Sure  the  cheeks  of  you  are  clapping  together  like 
the  sides  of  an  empty  bladder."  He  wrung  the 
mulatto's  hand  hard,  and  with  a  quick  pull  drew 
a  packet  of  coarse  cigarettes  from  his  pocket,  and 
thrust  them  into  Leon's  hand.  "  Smoke,  you 
divil,  smoke!  I've  got  food,  money,  and  all. 
Never  thought  to  see  me  back,  did  you  ?  I  never 
thought  to  see  myself  back,  bedad !  " 

Leon  nodded  rapidly,  and  lighting  a  cigarette, 
inhaled  the  smoke  greedily.  He  looked  a  new 
man,  despite  his  haggard  cheeks;  his  eyes  glit- 
tered with  affection  and  welcoming,  his  thick  lips 
took  on  the  curve  of  laughter.  European  and 
half-breed,  pure-bred  and  mongrel,  there  was  evi- 
dently a  friendship  between  them  such  as  springs 
up  only  upon  a  foundation  of  mutual  esteem  and 
respect.  Rourke  was  unroping  a  package  excit- 
edly, as  the  other  smoked.  He  took  food  from  it 
presently,  withdrew  a  bottle  from  a  holster,  and 
pushed  them  into  the  other's  hands. 

"  Let  me  see  you  get  that  inside  you,  ye  beau- 
tiful scarecrow !  "  he  said  loudly ;  more  loudly 
than  was  necessary,  perhaps.  "  Man !  it'll  be 
great  to  see  you  filling  out  like  a  great  balloon, 
so  it  will.  Oh,  the  divil  take  you  quick,  Leon ;  is 
that  the  best  you  can  do.  Can't  you  get  it  down 
faster?" 

Leon  grinned  and  ate  furiously.    He  held  the 

49 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

bottle  to  his  lips  and  let  the  contents  trickle  down 
his  hot  throat  with  a  sigh  of  immense  and  pro- 
longed enjoyment.  Every  time  he  met  Rourke's 
eyes  he  nodded,  and  his  big  mouth  left  the  bottle 
neck,  to  smile  thanks  and  pleasure. 

"  Sefior  7nio/'  he  said  presently.  *'  The  best 
joke  in  the  w^orld — I  had  a  knife  ready  for  you 
here.  If  you  had  been  some  other  man,  I  should 
have  robbed  you." 

Rourke  went  into  a  shout  of  laughter :  "  Sure, 
I  couldn't  have  made  a  better  speech  myself.  But 
I'm  thinking  if  I'd  been  some  other  man  you 
wouldn't  have  robbed  me,  d'ye  see?"  He 
looked  grave  of  a  sudden.  "  Is  all  well,  Leon?  " 
he  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  mulatto  lit  another  cigarette,  and  stared 
at  his  questioner  as  gravely.  "  Sefior,  it  is  as 
usual,  but  food  has  run  out — for  me  at  least,  and 
in  a  little  while  you  would  not  have  found  us 
here." 

"  Bless  your  black  soul !  "  said  Rourke,  with 
moist  eyes.  "  Anyway,  here  I  am,  and  the  best  of 
meat  with  me,  enough  to  go  on  with  till  I  can  get 
more.  And  I'll  leave  you  a  hundred  pesos,  in 
case  you  might  have  the  chance  to  run  over  to 
Copar.  No  wild  times  since  I  left,  I  hope, 
Leon?" 

Leon  shrugged,  and  pulling  up  his  poncho  at 
one  side,  rolled  up  the  sleeve  of  his  shirt,  and  ex- 

50 


LEON 

hibited  a  brawny  arm.  Rourke  bent  to  look. 
There,  on  the  tanned  skin  of  the  forearm,  he  could 
see  a  newly  healed  wound,  the  mark  of  three 
teeth  which  had  bitten  deep  into  the  flesh.  "  It 
happened  in  the  night,  seiior,  I  had  fallen  asleep, 
and  awakened  just  in  time." 

A  long  shudder  went  through  Rourke's  pow- 
erful frame,  and  he  turned  away  his  eyes :  "  It's 
on  to  us,  Leon,"  he  said  gravely.  "  But  neither 
you  nor  I  are  going  to  weaken." 

Leon  shook  his  head  decidedly,  and  settled  his 
poncho  about  him.  "  What  will  be  must !  "  he 
said  philosophically.  "  Let  us  forget  it.  What 
of  your  journey  to  the  town?  " 

They  sat  down  under  the  shade  of  a  rock, 
after  they  had  tethered  the  mule,  and  Rourke 
smoked  silently  for  a  few  minutes.  Then,  pres- 
ently, "  Sure  it  was  an  awful  job,"  he  said  slow- 
ly. "  I  was  sick,  sore,  and  tired  of  it  before  I  set 
foot  in  the  place.  But  anyway  I  got  to  Santola, 
and  called  on  Courvois — I'm  going  back  there, 
an'll  leave  the  burro  with  you.  It's  coming  off, 
my  boy,  yes,  it's  coming  off.  The  big  hunger's 
going  to  be  shifted  for  good  and  all  this  time.  He 
gave  me  some  on  account,  and  in  time  I'll  get  the 
rest.  But  it's  a  big  job  I  have  before  me.  I  can't 
push  quick,  but  I  must  keep  at  it  all  the  time. 
Sure,  there's  two  of  them  want  to  be  in  it,  Leon." 

51 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  Bueno"  said  the  mulatto,  brightening, 
**  you  are  clever,  sefior.    Both  shall  pay." 

"  No,  indeed,  they  won't !  One  of  them'll  pay 
his  whack,  but  the  other  I  won't  touch.  Honest 
Courvois  is  the  boy." 

"  Honest  Courvois,"  repeated  Leon,  waving 
his  cigarette. 

"  The  other's  an  American,  and  may  be  in- 
quisitive. Mind  that !  I  bought  you  a  pistol,  my 
boy,  to  scare  the  crows  with.  If  you  see  any  of 
them  settling  on  the  fence,  don't  hesitate  to  shoot. 
I  won't  have  trespassers  worrying  me  on  my  own 
ground." 

Leon  took  the  pistol  his  companion  handed  to 
him,  and  looked  admiringly  at  the  nickeled  cham- 
bers. It  was  a  hammerless  self-cocker  of  Amer- 
ican make,  long  in  the  barrel,  and  handy  as  a  toy. 
Rourke  added  a  box  of  cartridges,  and  nodded. 
''  The  dose,  to  be  taken  when  necessary ;  blue  pill 
guaranteed  to  cure  all  long-standing  complaints. 
Now,  you  know  what  to  do,  Leon  ?  " 

"  That,  yes." 

Rourke  looked  thoughtfully  before  him. 
"  Look  here,  Leon,"  he  began,  "  this  business 
may  take  two  or  three  months,  and  I'm  not  able 
at  all  to  find  a  way  of  communicating  with  you. 
Supposing  now,  I  want  to  send  you  some  money. 
I  couldn't  always  get  up  from  Santola;  for  it's 

52 


LEON 

six  days'  ride,  and  some  one  might  follow  me  if 
they  saw  me  coming  and  going." 

"  That  is  difficult,  but  I  think  can  be  arranged. 
If  you  send  a  letter  to  Copar,  I  could  steal  down 
there  sometimes,  and  fetch  it.  Address  care  of 
Seiior  Seguien  at  the  pulperia.  I  know  him 
slightly." 

"  Does  he  know  you  live  up  here  ?  " 

"  Here !  Why,  if  I  told  him  he  would  laugh 
at  me.  No  one  would  live  on  the  pass,  so  he  be- 
lieves." 

"  This  phantom  dog?  "  asked  Rourke. 

"  What  else — Seguien  thinks  I  am  from  Pie- 
rola." 

"  That'll  do  then.  I'll  send  anything  to  him, 
so  I  needn't  make  the  fellows  suspicious  in  San- 
tola.  Sure,  Leon,  it's  not  a  bed  of  roses  I  have 
to  sleep  on,  over  beyond.  The  thing'll  be  pretty 
complicated  presently,  and  Courvois  is  clever 
enough  not  to  talk  of  the  American.  Have  you 
got  any  of  the  stuff  since  ?  " 

The  mulatto  nodded,  and  felt  under  his 
poncho,  producing  a  piece  of  metal  of  a  size  and 
shape  similar  to  that  so  heavily  paid  for  by  Cour- 
vois. He  handed  it  to  Rourke,  untethered  the 
mule,  and  stepped  into  the  roadway  to  fetch  his 
knife. 

"  I  would  rather  you  took  the  burro  back  with 
you,"  he  said.     "  It  is  impossible  to  walk  back." 

53 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

**  Not  impossible,  for  I  did  it.  But  it  would 
be  tiresome,  and  I  never  intended  doing  it  this 
time.  I  have  just  enough  cash  left  to  buy  a  horse, 
so  I'll  get  one  in  the  valley,  and  touch  Courvois 
for  a  few  pounds  more  when  I  get  back." 

Leon  mopped  his  brow,  and  stared  up  the 
track  to  where  the  entrance  of  the  pass  gaped 
like  a  black  mouth :  "  Will  he  give  it  ?  " 

Rourke  laughed.  "  I  bet  you  he's  just  fer- 
menting all  this  while,"  he  remarked  wisely. 
"  What's  fifty  to  him ;  and  what  would  fifty  be  to 
me,  if  I  was  in  the  mind  to  do  him?  Sure,  he'll 
know  that,  and  if  he's  not  watching  all  roads  to 
see  me  coming  back,  I'm  an  honest  man,  like  old 
Johnny.  Aye,  he  and  the  American'll  be  thinking 
it  over.  They'll  be  trying  to  pump  each  other; 
for  Johnny  knew  that  I  was  after  calling  on  the 
other,  seeing  his  own  daughter  was  watching, 
under  the  shade  of  the  house  opposite,  when  I 
came  out.  A  black  mania  she  had  on,  and  didn't 
I  see  her  come  in,  and  hide  it  away  under  a  chair 
in  the  cafe." 

Leon  sat  down  again,  and  lit  a  fresh  cigarette, 
keeping  an  eye  to  the  mule,  which  had  strayed  to 
one  side  of  the  track  to  nibble  at  a  clump  of  coarse 
grass.  "  There  is  a  woman,  then  ? "  he  said 
dryly. 

Rourke  slapped  his  shoulder.  "  Och !  Leon, 
as  fine  a  girl  as  ever  you  saw.    Big  and  straight 

54 


LEON 

and  healthy,  with  a  sweet  mouth  and  eyes  in  her 
head,  would  remind  you  of  the  best  kind  of  stars 
on  a  dark  night.  I'm  not  ashamed  to  tell  you  she 
struck  me  sure.  She's  one  of  them  big  sleepy 
creatures,  powerful  fascinating  when  they  keep 
so,  and  amazing  when  they  wake  up." 

"  Sefior,  it  seems  to  me  that  Monsieur  Cour- 
vois  will  know  that,  too.  He  will  try  to  get  at 
you  through  the  woman." 

Rourke  winked.  "  Sure  he  will,  but  I'm  no 
fool.  I'll  be  bound  he's  given  her  instructions  be- 
fore this.  But  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  It 
isn't  a  woman  would  open  my  teeth  when  I'd 
made  up  my  mind  to  keep  them  tight  shut.  But 
the  girl's  grand,  she  goes  to  the  heart  of  you  in 
a  funny  way.  It's  good  to  look  at  her,  and  there's 
something  behind  the  eyes  tells  me  she  goes 
straight,  in  spite  of  old  Johnny  and  all.  Well, 
never  mind  that  now,  I  want  you  to  blast  me  out 
a  bit  of  ore,  and  have  it  ready  to  send  down  if  I 
want  it.    I'll  see  they  don't  send  it  to  an  assayer." 

"  But  this  American — is  he  interested  in 
mines?  " 

"  Yes,  and  knows  about  them,  too.  I'll  see 
he  doesn't  clap  eyes  on  the  stuff." 

"  It  is  for  the  other,  then  ?  " 

"  It  is.  Perhaps  I'll  be  bringing  him  this  way- 
one  day." 

55 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

Leon  started  up,  rolling  his  eyes.  "  Not 
here?" 

"  Trust  me !  I  wasn't  born  yesterday,  my 
boy,  nor  born  in  blinkers.    Mind  that !  " 

Leon  rose  once  more,  and  stood  looking  un- 
easily down  upon  his  companion.  "  Will  you 
come  up  the  pass  with  me  before  you  return  to 
Santola  ?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

"  I  will.  It's  heart  sorry  I  am  to  leave  you 
alone  here  so  long,  but  this  job  must  be  done. 
Can  you  stick  it  out  ?  " 

"  Si,  si,  it  is  not  happy  work,  but  that  also 
must  be  done." 

Leon  took  the  mule's  bridle,  and  began  to  lead 
it  upward.  Rourke  followed,  talking  to  him  in 
undertones,  a  new  expression  of  gravity  on  his 
face.  As  they  drew  nearer  the  mouth  of  the  pass 
both  were  more  solemn  than  usual,  and  their 
steps  lagged  a  little. 

"  It's  the  devil  and  all ! "  cried  Rourke  sud- 
denly. 

The  mulatto  shrugged  comprehensively  and 
tugged  at  the  bridle.  Then  they  passed  round  a 
projecting  corner  of  rock,  and  disappeared  into 
the  silent  fastnesses  of  the  gorge. 

The  sun  was  still  high  in  the  heavens,  bathing 
the  steep  in  a  flood  of  yellow  light,  when  the 
Irishman  again  appeared  at  the  mouth  of  the 
pass,  and  came  wearily  down  the  track.    A  frown 

56 


LEON 

furrowed  his  broad  forehead,  and  his  Hps  were 
drawn  tight.  Leon  had  not  come  with  him,  and 
the  mule  with  its  load  he  had  left  behind.  As  he 
went  farther  from  the  pass  his  face  cleared,  and 
his  steps  quickened.  Every  mile  he  traversed  saw 
him  happier,  brighter.  Yet  he  had  not  forgotten 
the  mulatto  keeping  his  vigil  among  the  rocks 
above.  He  thought  of  him  only  too  often  for 
his  own  peace  of  mind. 

The  horse  on  which  he  had  left  Santola  he 
had  disposed  of  to  a  pulperia  keeper  in  Copar, 
in  exchange  for  the  pack  mule  and  an  assortment 
of  foodstuffs.  It  would  have  been  useless  to  ex- 
pect the  animal  to  climb  the  precipitous  track,  up 
which  the  mule  had  passed  without  a  stumble. 
Besides,  the  horse  had  been  bought  in  a  reckless 
moment,  and  was  too  good  for  the  work  to  which 
it  would  be  put.  Seguien  had  not  been  told  in 
which  direction  he  was  traveling,  but  was  merely 
informed  by  Rourke  that  he  would  be  back  in  the 
course  of  a  few  days,  and  asked  to  keep  an  eye 
out  for  a  half-bred  animal  that  might  be  bought 
cheap. 

By  using  a  short  cut  over  a  stretch  of  broken 
country,  Rourke  reached  Copar  within  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  promptly  went  to  sleep  in  a  ham- 
mock slung  for  him  under  the  veranda.  When 
he  wakened,  he  found  Seguien  pulling  at  his 
sleeve,  to  attract  his  attention  to  a  skewbald  mare 

57 


DESAIOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

which  a  peon  was  leading  up  and  down  in  front 
of  the  pulperia.  He  jumped  out  of  the  hammock, 
and  inspected  this  new  mount,  expressed  partial 
satisfaction,  and  strolled  back  to  his  hammock  to 
turn  in  once  more.  Seguien  followed  him  closely, 
and  began  to  talk  of  the  beast's  points. 

"  And  I  am  willing  to  let  the  sefior  have  her 
for  four  hundred  pesos,"  he  wound  up. 

Rourke  settled  himself  comfortably,  and 
closed  his  eyes.  "  I  am  not  wanting  half  a  dozen 
of  them,"  he  said  drowsily. 

"  Ah,  but  it  is  a  magnificent  animal,  worth  at 
the  least  six  hundred  pesos." 

"  Keep  her  then,  and  you  can  send  her  to  the 
races  at  Buenos  Ayres.  Sure  they  couldn't  make 
up  their  mind  about  that  mare,  but  put  in  patches 
of  all  colors  to  see  which'd  fit  best.  It  wasn't  a 
Joseph's  coat  I  wanted,  but  a  horse.  It's  a  circus 
she  should  be  in." 

Seguien  walked  away,  and  Rourke  began  to 
snore  gently.  Then  the  man  came  back  and 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  You  shall  have 
the  animal  for  three  hundred,"  he  said  reproach- 
fully. 

"  Not  at  a  gift,"  said  Rourke,  raising  himself 
on  one  elbow. 

"  It  shall  be  a  gift,"  said  the  other  gener- 
ously.   ''  One  hundred  pesos,  and  she  is  yours." 

58 


LEON 

"  With  a  saddle  and  fixings  ?  "  asked  Rourke^ 
rubbing  his  eyes. 

Seguien  wrung  his  hands.     "  I  rob  myself." 

"  Do !  and  have  the  saddle  put  on  him,  or  her, 
whichever  it  is.  It  isn't  often  I  have  a  chance  of 
robbing  anybody.     Here's  your  money." 

**  Gracias,  sefior."  Seguien  thanked  him,  for 
the  price  was  more  than  he  had  expected.  "  Will 
you  have  some  wine  with  me  ?  " 

"  Thanks,  no ;  I  never  take  drinks  between 
sleeps.    Adios,  Sefior  Seguien." 

He  got  up  without  further  speech,  and  slung 
himself  on  to  the  saddle,  threw  some  coins  to  the 
peon,  and  put  his  knees  into  the  skewbald's  sides. 
The  mare  sidled,  made  an  attempt  to  buck,  and 
then  struck  into  a  canter.  She  had  a  good  mouth, 
and,  though  her  manners  were  not  those  of  a 
lady's  hack,  was  not  particularly  vicious.  She 
had  a  fashion  of  turning  her  head,  when  pulled 
up,  in  an  endeavor  to  graze  off  her  rider's  knee, 
but  showed  no  other  signs  of  temper.  Once  clear 
of  the  pulperia,  Rourke  set  her  hard  at  it,  was 
soon  hidden  from  Seguien's  view  by  a  cloud  of 
rolling  dust,  and  quickly  left  Copar  on  the  dis- 
tant skyline. 

Four  days  later  he  rode  into  Santola,  as  the 
sun  dived  beneath  the  horizon,  and  made  his  way 
to  the  Cafe  Fleur  de  Lys.  Some  distance  out  of 
the  town  he  had  made  a  detour,  and  came  jog- 

5  59 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

ging  up  the  Calle  San  Salvador,  as  if  coming 
from  Paralles,  which  lay  away  eastward. 

Courvois  was  out  when  he  arrived,  but  Jeanne 
sat  in  the  little  glass-sided  compartment,  and 
smiled  welcome  to  him  as  he  strode  up  the  cafe. 

''Bon  soir,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  smiling, 
and  dusting  his  coat  vigorously.  "  J'espere  que 
je  vous  troiive  en  bon  sante — Och!  bother.  I 
can't  talk  French,  and  never  could,  but  how  are 
you?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you,  monsieur.  And 
you?" 

"  Dying !  "  he  announced,  leaning  over  to  look 
down  at  her.  "  Sure  I've  missed  you  terribly. 
Couldn't  eat  nor  sleep  since  I  went  away,  just  for 
thinking  of  you." 

"  Monsieur  draws  inspiration  from  the  moun- 
tains again,"  she  said  demurely,  but  looked 
pleased,  nevertheless ;  "  and  monsieur  grows  fat 
without  food  and  sleep." 

"  No,  do  I  ?  I  was  never  one  of  Pharaoh's 
lean  kine,  but  fat  I  do  hate.  Perhaps  it's  love 
does  it,  Jeanne." 

"  Love — is  monsieur  in  love  ?  " 

He  smiled  gently.  "  Och,  Jeanne !  Was  I 
ever  out  of  it?  It's  a  kind  of  disease,  I'm  think- 
ing, and  mighty  catching.  We've  all  got  it  more 
or  less.  I'll  be  getting  jealous  of  that  Mister 
Mitad  of  yours  presently." 

60 


LEON 

"  Do  not  talk  to  me  of  it !  "  she  said  seriously. 
**  I  am  tired.  Ciel!  how  tired  of  the  word.  You 
men  are  a  curious  race,  monsieur.  You  are 
pleased  with  one  woman,  and  you  never  ask  is 
she  pleased  with  you.  But  when  another  comes 
— pooh!  you  fly  into  a  passion,  and  make  our 
lives  a  burden.  No,  I  think  that  love  may  be  in- 
tolerable sometimes." 

"  Don't !  "  he  cried,  holding  up  his  hands  in 
mock  horror.  "  Would  you  deprive  me  of  my 
last  hope,  and  send  me  to  a  suicide's  grave  ?  Be 
easy,  Jeanne,  my  heart's  so  fragile.  Feel  here, 
and  you'll  notice  how  it's  bumping." 

Jeanne  looked  swiftly  about  the  cafe,  and 
laughingly  put  her  hand  on  his  broad  chest. 
"  Just  there,  monsieur  ?  " 

"  That's  it,  only  tighter.  Sure  it's  so  light  I 
can't  feel  it.    Have  you  got  a  heart,  Jeanne  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  told  so,"  she  smiled. 

"  Who  had  the  impertinence " 

"  It  was  my  doctor,  monsieur." 

"  Well,  Jeanne,  I  don't  believe  it !  Does  it 
beat  like  anyone  else's  ?  "  He  put  out  his  hand 
laughingly,  but  dropped  it,  and  captured  her 
wrist. 

"  Monsieur !  " 

"  The  dearest  little  pulse  in  all  the  world,"  he 
said  rapturously.  "  Sure  it's  like  the  little  angels 
in  you  trying  and  struggling  to  get  out." 

6i 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

Jeanne  colored,  and  the  pink  flush  on  her 
cheeks  and  throat  gave  her  face  an  unusual  look 
of  animation;  then  suddenly,  and  in  a  tone  of 
alarm:  "My  father  comes." 

Rourke  straightened  himself,  and  looked  se- 
rious. "  Well,  Courvois,"  he  said,  holding  out  a 
hand  as  the  other  came  up  eagerly,  "  here  I  am 
again,  you  see.  I  had  to  take  a  run  up  to  see 
that  place  we  were  talking  of,  and  couldn't  get 
back  sooner.  I'm  thinking  now  I  put  the  figure 
too  low." 

"  You  may  rest  for  a  short  time,  Jeanne," 
said  Courvois.  Then :  "  Well,  monsieur,  I  am 
glad  to  see  you  once  more.  I  wished  to  talk  with 
you  about  that  matter." 

Jeanne  nodded  brightly  to  Rourke,  and  left 
the  cafe  to  go  upstairs  to  her  own  room.  Cour- 
vois looked  after  her  for  a  moment,  then  signed 
to  the  head  waiter  to  look  after  things  in  his 
absence,  and  led  the  way  out  to  the  tiled  court 
beyond  the  swing  door.  When  they  were  com- 
fortably seated,  he  turned  inquiringly  to  his 
visitor. 

"  Well,  I've  seen  the  place  again,"  said  the 
latter,  tapping  his  knee  with  impressive  finger, 
"  and  I'm  more  sure  than  ever  that  it's  going  to 
be  a  fortune  for  some  one.  Here's  another  sam- 
ple nugget  from  the  claim,  and  I'm  getting  a 

62 


LEON 

man  of  mine  over  there  to  blast  a  piece  out  of  the 
ore  body  to  show  you." 

''  Bien,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  examine  it  when 
it  arrives.  Meanwhile,  I  hope  you  have  decided 
to  give  me  some  further  proofs  of  the  genuine- 
ness of  the  proposition." 

Rourke  stood  up,  towering  over  the  smaller 
man,  and  staring  down  at  him  contemptuously. 
"  If  it  had  been  anyone  but  yourself  had  said  the 
like  of  that  to  me,  I'd  have  given  him  something 
to  know  me  by!  "  he  said  shortly.  "  D'ye  mean 
to  accuse  me  of  cheating  you,  Mister  Courvois?  " 

Courvois  shook  his  head  vigorously,  and 
gesticulated  with  extraordinary  opulence.  *'  Ac- 
cuse you — me?  Ah,  monsieur,  you  misunder- 
stand me  completely.  I  meant  to  say  that  I  hoped 
you  were  going  to  place  the  affair  on  a  business 
footing." 

"  Well,  why  didn't  you  say  so?  " 

"  Pardon,  I  express  myself  clumsily.  Tell  me 
what  decision  you  have  come  to." 

Rourke  replaced  the  nugget  in  his  pocket,  and 
rubbed  his  chin. 

"  Just  this,"  he  said  angrily.  "  I'll  get  the 
thing  done  myself,  and  save  a  lot  of  bother,  or 
ril  get  some  one  else  to  take  it  up.  What  d'ye 
say  was  the  name  of  that  American  fellow  ?  " 

''  Smith — but  monsieur " 

63 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  But  nothing.  I'll  let  no  man  insult  me  for 
fun.    Good  evening  to  you,  Monsieur  Courvois." 

"  Permit  me  to  explain " 

Rourke  shook  his  head,  and  crossed  the  court 
to  the  swing  door.  It  opened,  swung  to  behind 
him,  and  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER    V 

THE   WATER-SELLER 

IT  was  one  of  Rourke's  most  treasured  max- 
ims that  it  is  never  wise  to  leave  hurriedly 
any  house  where  you  have  called  on  busi- 
ness of  importance;  and  never  discreet  to  look 
around  you  as  you  emerge. 

He  left  the  Cafe  Fleur  de  Lys  at  a  slow  walk, 
and  looking  straight  before  him;  consequently, 
he  did  not  see,  or  pretended  not  to  see,  his  land- 
lord, the  water-seller,  who  was  approaching  the 
entrance  at  a  smart  pace.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  bent  down  at  that  moment  to  pull  up  one  of 
his  long  boots,  and  only  straightened  himself, 
with  a  flushed  face,  when  his  host  had  backed 
rapidly  into  a  convenient  entry,  and  disappeared. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  turned  to- 
ward the  Calle  Passado,  and  presently  found 
himself  within  the  hospitable  portals  of  No.  9. 
The  water-seller  greeted  him  with  effusion,  a 
fact  which,  coupled  with  a  hot  face  and  a  manner 
of  rather  overdone  politeness,  should  have  set 
Rourke  thinking.     The  effusiveness  of  the  land- 

65 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

lord's  manner  might  have  led  one  to  believe  that 
he  v^as  welcoming  a  tenant,  who  had  not  paid  his 
rent,  but  was  now  returning,  prodigal-like,  to 
make  amends.  Rourke  greeted  him  cheerfully, 
but  to  himself  he  was  saying:  "I  wonder  how 
much  Courvois  paid  you  to  bring  information." 
In  any  case,  he  did  not  intend  to  bid  higher  than 
Courvois,  having  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  the 
man  would  take  pay  from  all  parties,  and  sup- 
ply information  impartially  to  all. 

He  had  a  certain  harelike  aptitude  for  see- 
ing behind  and  to  one  side  of  him  when  appar- 
ently looking  at  what  lay  directly  ahead,  and  the 
water-seller's  strategic  retreat  had  not  passed 
unnoticed.  An  instinct  told  him  that  he  would 
be  better  able  to  cope  with  a  system  of  espionage 
by  giving  the  spies  to  believe  that  he  was  igno- 
rant of  their  intentions. 

"  Yes,  it's  back  I  am,"  he  said,  in  answer  to 
the  other's  sly  questions.  "  I'll  be  glad  if  you'll 
get  me  something  to  eat  right  away,  and  bring 
me  a  pen  and  ink  in  the  meantime.  I  want  to 
write  a  letter." 

"  Certainly,  sefior,  I  shall  procure  them  at 
once,  also  paper.  And  you  shall  have  something 
to  eat  at  once.  You  must  be  hungry  after  your 
long  ride." 

"  Who  told  you  it  was  long?  " 

"  No  one,  sehor — I  thought " 

66 


THE    WATER-SELLER 

"  Well,  don't  go  and  hurt  yourself  thinking 
too  much.  Run  along  like  a  good  man,  and  bring 
me  what  I  want." 

The  water-seller  bowed  and  retired,  to  return 
with  what  was  required.  "  Will  you  wish  me  to 
take  your  letter  to  the  post  afterwards?  I  will 
wait  if  you  wish  it." 

"You're  too  kind,  but  I  don't  wish  it.  I'll 
carry  the  letter  myself.  Now  run  away.  I'm 
busy." 

"  At  once,  sefior." 

When  the  man  had  gone  out,  Rourke  sat 
down  at  the  table,  and  pulling  the  paper  toward 
him,  began  to  write : 

"  The  Ookatee  Mining  Machinery  Co., 
"  Harbord,  Conn.,  U.S.A. 

"  Gentlemen  : — I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will 
furnish  me  with  an  estimate,  giving  detailed 
prices  for  supplying  and  setting  up  mining  ma- 
chinery. I  think  of  developing  a  claim,  which  I 
think  can  be  made  to  yield  silver  in  paying  quan- 
tities, and  would  begin  with  a  six-stamp  battery. 
The  price  is  to  include  machinery,  labor,  and 
carriage  by  rail  to  the  town  of  Pierola.  Let  me 
have  a  reply  at  your  earliest  convenience,  and 
oblige 

"  Yours  faithfully, 

"  Desmond  Rourke. 

"  Calle  Passado  9,  Santola." 

67 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

The  letter  finished,  he  sat  back,  and  contem- 
plated it  with  sly  satisfaction.  Then  he  folded  it 
up,  and  slipped  it  into  an  envelope,  and  was 
about  to  seal  it,  with  a  stick  of  wax  he  took  from 
his  pocket,  when  a  thought  struck  him.  He 
paused,  smiled  broadly,  and  replaced  the  sealing 
wax.  Wetting  the  gum  on  the  envelope,  he 
pasted  it  down,  and  began  to  write  the  address. 

"  I  think  that  ought  to  fix  it,"  he  said  under 
his  breath.    "  I  think  so,  indeed." 

The  water-seller  came  in  then  with  cofifee, 
tortillas,  and  a  warm-smelling  dish  of  frijoles, 
which  he  set  down  upon  the  table,  his  eye  mean- 
while industriously  roving  about  the  room  in 
search  of  the  letter.  He  was  naif  enough  to 
imagine  that  Rourke  must  have  put  it  down 
somewhere  within  view.  But  the  letter,  with  its 
envelope  and  the  significant  address,  was  repos- 
ing at  the  moment  in  Rourke's  pocket,  quite  se- 
cure from  prying  eyes. 

"  There,  sefior,  I  saw  to  it  myself ;  and  if 
there  is  anything  else  you  wish  I  will  see  to  it 
also." 

"  Well,  I  wish  you  were  in  your  bed.  I  don't 
want  anything  else.     Good  night  to  you." 

"  Buenas  noches,  seiior,"  said  the  other,  as 
smoothly  as  he  could,  and  hastened  to  retire. 

Rourke  slept  soundly  that  night,  though  the 
heat  was  great,  and  a  thousand  and  one  inquir- 

68 


THE    WATER-SELLER 

ing  insects  buzzed  and  sang  outside  the  mosquito 
net.  The  morning  sun,  streaming  in  through  the 
barred  window,  fell  full  upon  his  face,  revealing 
it  placid  and  smiling,  made  him  open  his  eyes 
and  blink.  Then  he  pulled  aside  the  mosquito 
net,  sprang  to  the  floor,  and  began  hurriedly  to 
dress.  His  toilet  completed,  he  opened  the  door, 
and  shouted  for  the  water-seller. 

"  Hello,  there !  I  want  breakfast  in  two 
shakes,  and  you  may  get  my  horse  saddled.  I'm 
going  for  a  ride  to-day." 

"  Breakfast  is  already  waiting  for  you,"  said 
the  water-seller,  appearing  from  another  door, 
and  yawning  prodigiously.  "  As  for  the  horse, 
I  shall  see  to  it  at  once.  And  if  the  sefior  is  go- 
ing far,  I  could  put  up  some  food  for  him,  and 
a  bottle  of  wine." 

"  Now  don't  you  jump  to  conclusions  like 
that!  You've  got  what  I  call  a  kind  of  antici- 
patory mind.  Faith!  there's  such  a  thing  as 
officiousness,  my  boy,  and  I'd  sooner  have  a  care- 
less man  any  day.  I'm  just  going  for  a  ride 
along  the  Alameda." 

He  sat  down  to  his  coffee  good-humoredly, 
having  got  rid  of  the  talkative  half-breed,  and 
ruminated  on  the  plans  for  the  day. 

"  There's  this  Smith  now,"  he  said,  musing. 
"  I  believe  the  creature  takes  a  canter  round 
every  morning  early.     It  wouldn't  do  any  harm 

69 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

to  start  up  along  his  street.  Sure  I  couldn't  do 
better  than  not  see  him." 

He  foresaw  that  there  would  be  a  difficulty 
in  handling  Smith.  The  American  was  a  man  of 
affairs,  used  to  sharp  dealing,  and  practiced  in 
the  commercial  guerrilla.  He  was  pertinacious, 
too,  and  obviously  determined  to  follow  up  this 
question  of  the  silver  mine.  He  would  not  be  an 
easy  man  to  shake  off.  In  a  deal  of  this  kind 
each  of  the  protagonists  must  study  the  other, 
keep  his  own  thoughts  secret,  and  judge  his  op- 
ponent's, not  so  much  by  what  has  been  said,  as 
by  the  obvious  things  left  unsaid.  Smith  had 
asked  him  to  disclose  the  name  of  the  locality  in 
which  his  claim  was  situated.  He  had  replied  by 
stating  that,  once  the  secret  was  out,  this  claim 
might  be  jumped  by  some  one  other  than  him- 
self. That  was  clear  enough.  Still  it  was  neces- 
sary to  look  at  the  thing  from  Smith's  point  of 
view,  to  put  himself  in  Smith's  place.  Taking 
that  as  hypothesis,  what  would  he  have  said? 

That  also  was  obvious.  Smith  should  have 
replied  that  it  was  only  necessary  to  approach 
the  Federal  Government,  obtain  a  permit  to  work 
the  claim,  or  buy  the  property  outright.  If  that 
was  done,  no  outsider  could  interfere  without 
coming  into  conflict  with  the  authorities.  The 
American  was  well  acquainted  with  mining  prop- 

70 


THE    WATER-SELLER 

ositions,  and  hardly  likely  to  overlook  that  side 
of  the  question.  Rourke  frowned  over  the  prob- 
lem. Why  had  Smith  left  this  simple  point  un- 
touched? There  must  be  a  reason  for  that. 
Either  he  took  Rourke  for  a  fool,  who  did  not 
know  the  right  way  to  secure  his  title  to  the 
claim ;  or  he  had  some  deep  plan  to  work  out,  the 
details  of  which  it  was  as  yet  impossible  to  con- 
jecture. One  thing  was  certain:  he  knew  that 
the  genuine  owner  of  a  mining  claim  has  no  need 
to  make  a  secret  of  it. 

He  lit  a  big  cigar,  and  smoked  thoughtfully. 
Then  he  took  a  piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil  from 
his  pocket,  and  began  to  sketch  in  the  outlines  of 
Smith's  capable  face.  The  manner  was  impres- 
sionist, but,  from  the  bold,  rapid  strokes,  the 
American  was  evolved  in  a  lifelike  fashion  that 
spoke  to  the  artist's  skill.  Rourke  put  his  head 
on  one  side,  and  regarded  his  work  with  a 
pleased  expression.  Putting  the  sketch  aside,  he 
took  another  piece  of  paper,  and  touched  in 
Jeanne's  face.  He  seemed  to  have  an  eye  for 
character.  The  girl  looked  up  at  you  from  the 
paper;  lethargic  of  temperament,  a  trifle  sulky; 
but  affectionate,  sympathetic,  and  capable  of  pas- 
sion when  her  heart  was  touched.  Side  by  side 
with  her  on  the  same  sheet,  Rourke  drew  Cour- 
vois;  ferret-featured,  sharp-eyed,  and  shrewd  of 
face,  but  softened  to  an  appearance  of  suave 

71 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

amiability  by  the  smile  of  professional  welcome 
which  hovered  always  on  his  thin  lips. 

"  Sure,  they're  very  unlike,"  said  the  artist, 
looking  from  one  face  to  the  other.  "  The  eyes 
now — and  they're  generally  a  guide — ^Jeanne's 
have  depth  in  them,  while  old  Johnny's  have  all 
the  expression  on  the  top.  Then  there's  the 
mouth — Jeanne's  is  generous,  and  the  sulky 
curve  to  it  doesn't  hint  at  much  subtlety.  Let's 
see  if  I  can  make  a  resemblance  without  strain- 
ing." 

He  retouched  the  girl's  face,  taking  from  the 
fullness  of  the  lips,  narrowing  the  eyes,  making 
the  nose  thinner,  the  cheekbones  higher. 

"  Sure  Nature  never  did  the  like  of  that,"  he 
said  softly.  "  It's  his  stepdaughter  she  is,  meb- 
be.  The  lines  don't  run  the  same  way,  and  even 
if  the  mother  was — "  He  stopped  short  and  got 
up,  putting  the  two  portraits  in  his  pocket,  and 
tearing  up  the  sheet  of  paper  from  which  Smith 
looked  speculatively  out  upon  the  world. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  went  out  into  the  street, 
and  mounted  his  horse.  He  rode  first  up  the 
Calle  Huelva,  keeping  a  tight  hand  on  the  reins, 
and  prepared  to  swing  his  beast  about  if  he  en- 
countered Smith  too  suddenly.  But  the  Ameri- 
can was  not  in  sight,  and  he  trotted  slowly 
through  the  plaza,  glancing  over  his  shoulder  as 
he  passed  near  the  Cafe  Fleur  de  Lys,  the  doors 

72 


THE   WATER-SELLER 

of  which  had  just  been  opened  for  the  day.  Pres- 
ently he  came  to  the  Alameda,  and  rode  quietly 
between  the  lines  of  graceful  palms,  enjoying  his 
cigar,  and  the  grateful  brightness  of  the  morn- 
ing. 

Perhaps  half  an  hour  had  passed,  when  he 
heard  hoof-beats  coming  up  behind  him.  Smith 
must  be  out,  for  the  inhabitants  of  Santola  are 
not  given  to  horse  exercise  in  the  early  morning; 
and  the  animal  to  the  rear  was  evidently  a 
"  pacer."  Rourke  kept  steadily  on,  till  he 
guessed  that  the  other  had  come  within  hailing 
distance,  then  quickened  pace,  and  began  to  hur- 
ry along  toward  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  As 
he  went  he  heard  a  shrill  call. 

*'  Rourke !    I  say,  Rourke !  " 

He  pretended  not  to  hear,  and  leaving  the 
Alameda,  cantered  up  a  side  street  and  out  into 
the  open  country.  Would  Smith  give  up,  or  fol- 
low him?  He  did  not  call  again,  but  the  hoof- 
beats  sounded  louder,  and  it  was  probable  that 
the  American  did  not  intend  to  be  dropped.  The 
going  was  softer  here,  over  rough  grass  and 
patches  of  loose  brown  sand.  Further  away 
there  were  clumps  of  bushes  and  flowering 
shrubs,  growing  closely  to  the  height  of  a  tall 
man's  head.  Rourke  shook  his  horse  into  a  full 
gallop,  and  heard  the  following  sound  grow 
fainter.     He   pointed   directly   for    the   thickest 

73 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

tangle  of  shrubs,  swerved  into  a  disused  track, 
and  suddenly  rolled  from  the  saddle.  The  mo- 
ment he  was  down,  he  tied  up  the  mare's  off  fore- 
leg with  a  strap,  and  pulling  deftly  at  the  other, 
brought  her  down  upon  her  side. 

Here  he  was  hidden  from  the  eyes  of  anyone 
passing,  though  there  was  just  a  chance  that 
Smith  might  search  the  scrub.  He  settled  him- 
self comfortably  and  began  to  pat  the  mare's 
heaving  sides.  A  minute  passed  quietly,  then 
he  heard  the  pacer  swishing  through  the  long 
grass,  and  rising  to  his  feet  went  crouching  to 
the  rim  of  the  bushes. 

It  was  Smith  right  enough.  He  looked  hot 
and  angry,  and  tapped  his  mount's  flank  irritably 
with  a  cane.  His  expression  showed  that  he  was 
exasperated  by  his  failure  to  follow,  and  was  at 
a  loss  to  conjecture  which  path  Rourke  had 
taken.  He  stood  up  in  his  stirrups  and  stared 
westward,  filliped  his  fingers  in  annoyance,  and 
came  slowly  toward  the  bushes.  Rourke  dropped 
out  of  sight,  peering  at  him  through  the  rifts  in 
the  foliage.  He  beean  to  think  that  the  other 
suspected  him  of  hiding  among  the  bushes. 

No,  Smith  had  turned  his  horse,  and  set  him 
toward  Santola.  Either  he  had  given  up  the 
chase,  or  thought  it  might  be  indiscreet  to  ap- 
pear to  have  followed  closely  upon  the  Irishman's 
heels.     He  rode  away  slowly,  and  Rourke  hur- 

74 


THE    WATER-SELLER 

ried  back  to  his  mare,  loosed  the  strap  from  her 
foreleg,  and  urged  her  up.  Then  he  mounted, 
and  set  off  after  the  American. 

He  caught  him  rapidly,  and  presently  rang- 
ing alongside,  greeted  him  cheerfully. 

"  Hello,  George  H.  What's  brought  you  out 
so  far  in  all  the  world?  Sure  it's  in  bed  you 
ought  to  be  so  early  an'  all." 

Smith  extended  a  limp  hand :  "  Say,  is  that 
you,  Rourke  ?  I  reckon  you  must  have  been  try- 
ing to  draw  a  bead  on  that  early  worm." 

"  Worm,  is  it  ?  There's  not  one  to  be  found 
in  a  soil  like  this — too  dry,  you  see.  A  man 
might  look,  and  better  look,  without  seeing  so 
much  as  the  tail  of  one." 

Smith  had  not  explained  his  presence  at  this 
time,  and  the  omission  spoke  to  his  appreciation 
of  the  other's  shrewdness.  A  clever  man  will  al- 
ways prefer  to  be  misconstrued  rather  than  make 
a  faulty  excuse. 

"  That's  so,"  he  returned  carelessly,  and  a 
glint  of  white  teeth  showed  between  his  drawn 
lips.  "  But  what  on  airth  are  you  doing  on  that 
painted  cayuse  at  this  time  of  day?  Been  look- 
ing after  your  mine,  perhaps  ?  " 

Rourke  yawned  indulgently.    "Oh,  that!    In- 
deed, I  wasn't  thinking  of  it  at  all.     Anyway, 
George   H.,   you   needn't   be    thinking   over    it, 
either,  for  you're  not  in  it." 
6  75 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  Now,  did  I  say  I  was?    Not  me,  sir." 

Rourke  drew  in  the  mare,  and  glanced  at 
him  with  half-closed  eyes.  He  had  all  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  simple  man  who  is  trying  to  prove 
how  deceptive  he  can  be;  of  an  ingenuous  saint 
trying  to  earn  a  reputation  for  worldliness. 

"  I'm  going  to  tell  you  a  very  queer  thing," 
he  observed,  "  but  I  hope  you  won't  let  it  get 
any  further.  Sure,  that  mine  I  have  is  like  the 
castles  they  grow  in  Spain.  A  man  might  look 
all  day  where  it  was — I  mean  where  it  wasn't, 
and  not  see  it.  Where  would  the  likes  of  me 
find  silver,  and  me  knowing  less  of  mines  than  a 
humming  bird?     Tell  me  that,  George  H." 

Smith  surveyed  him  gravely.  "  Why  didn't 
you  tell  me  that  before,  sonny?  "  he  asked,  affect- 
ing to  believe  what  he  had  been  told.  "  I  reckon 
it  didn't  take  me  in,  anyway.  I  suppose  you  hope 
to  rope  in  old  Courvois  with  the  yarn,  and  touch 
him  for  a  few.  Well,  where  did  you  tell  him  the 
claim  was?  " 

"Ah,  indeed?"  said  Rourke,  winking,  and 
riding  ahead. 

Smith  drew  up  to  him  again.  "  See  here," 
he  began  aggrievedly,  "  you're  making  an  all- 
fired  secret  of  this  claim  of  yours.  What's  the 
use  of  that,  anyway?  " 

They  had  entered  upon  the  Alameda,  and 
were  riding  toward  the  plaza.     Smith  had  made 

76 


THE    WATER-SELLER 

a  mistake  in  permitting  his  curious  impatience 
to  get  the  better  of  him.  Seeing  Rourke  riding 
out  of  Santola,  he  had  jumped  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  was  going  to  make  a  further  inspection 
of  the  claim.  The  confession  that  the  latter  had 
no  real  existence  had  only  served  to  strengthen 
him  in  the  idea  that  the  Irishman  was  in  posses- 
sion of  valuable  information.  So  much  was  ob- 
vious from  his  unguarded  phrase. 

"  You  don't  believe  me,  then  ?  You  think  the 
claim  is  real.  Well,  I'm  not  saying  that  it  isn't. 
All  I  do  say  is,  you've  had  your  chance,  and 
didn't  take  it,  so  faith !  you  haven't  it  any  longer. 
I  hear  that  you  fellows  in  America  North  have  a 
way  of  talking  to  each  other  that  isn't  over  and 
above  polite.  Now  that's  not  our  way  in  Ireland 
at  all.  Sure,  we  like  everything  buttered,  even 
if  it's  meant  to  be  hot.    Now  if  I  was  wanting  to 

call  you  a  knave,  George  H. " 

"  You'd  soon  be  wanting  a  coffin,  I  imagine." 
"  D'ye  tell  me  that  ?  Don't  make  me  narvous 
at  the  start.  What  I  was  going  to  say  is  this: 
If  I  was  wanting  to  call  you  a  knave,  and,  being 
Irish,  didn't  like  to  hurt  your  feelings,  I  should 
say  you  were  a  clockwork  saint  with  the  main- 
spring gone.  However,  that's  neither  here  nor 
there — the  other  day  you  as  good  as  called  me  a 
bunco  steerer.     The  consequence  is  that  I  don't 

77 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

offer  you  my  proposition,  and  that's  the  end 
of  it." 

Rourke  had  brought  his  man  to  the  strategic 
position  he  desired;  exactly  opposite  the  Cafe 
Fleur  de  Lys,  and  now,  seeing  Courvois  come 
out  to  the  doorway,  and  stare  across  the  plaza, 
he  sheered  away  from  the  American,  just  turn- 
ing a  little  to  call  softly  over  his  shoulder : 

"  Hist !  there's  old  Johnny.  I  don't  want  him 
to  see  us  together." 

Smith  took  a  more  hopeful  view  of  the  situa- 
tion than  he  had  yet  done.  He  nodded  ever  so 
slightly,  and  stopped  to  light  a  cigar,  while  the 
other  pulled  up  his  skewbald  under  the  shade 
near  the  sidewalk,  and  dismounting,  turned  into 
the  cafe. 

Courvois  greeted  him  as  cheerfully  as  if 
nothing  had  occurred  to  mar  the  friendship  and 
intimacy  of  their  intercourse.  He  himself  saw 
to  the  ordering  of  coffee  for  this  customer,  and 
brought  it  on  a  little  lacquer  tray.  He  had  seen 
Smith  and  the  Irishman  together,  and  had  ob- 
served the  little  bit  of  byplay  when  they  parted 
so  abruptly.  He  scanned  Rourke  closely  as  he 
arranged  the  tray,  and  could  see  that  his  boots 
were  dusty,  with  the  clinging  brown  dust  of  the 
plain  outside  the  town.  Then  the  speculator  had 
been  with  him,  and  that  looked  as  though  some 

78 


THE    WATER-SELLER 

business  had  been  transacted.  He  must  make  up 
his  mind  to  act  quickly. 

With  the  famiHarity  of  a  much-respected 
host,  he  sat  down  at  the  other  side  of  the  little 
marble-topped  table,  and  offered  a  cigarette. 
"  You  will  smoke — here  is  a  light.  And  the  cof- 
fee— n'est  il  pas  hon?  So  you  have  been  out  for 
an  early  ride,  Monsieur  Rourke  ?  " 

"  I  have  that,  and  a  brave  day  it  is." 

"  You  like  to  ride  alone?  " 

Rourke  sipped  his  coffee.  "  Indeed,  I  do, 
then,"  he  said  imperturbably.  ''  I  can't  argue 
wid  myself,  and  I  can't  fight  wid  myself,  and  I 
can  hold  my  own  tongue.  Isn't  that  a  deal  easier 
than  riding  wid  a  man  who's  worrying  you?  " 

Courvois  admitted  all  that  in  a  shrug  and  a 
smile.  There  was  something  up,  then.  He 
found  it  hard  to  keep  his  temper. 

"  I've  got  another  little  nugget  for  you,"  said 
Rourke,  calmly  feeling  in  his  pockets.  He  handed 
it  to  his  companion,  and  yawned  a  little  behind 
his  hand. 

Courvois  took  it  with  a  bow,  and  placed  a 
quick  foot  upon  something  which  had  slipped 
from  Rourke's  pocket  and  fluttered  to  the  floor. 
Presently  he  was  able  to  stoop  and  pick  it  up 
unperceived.  Meanwhile,  "  Well,  Monsieur,  you 
will  need  some  money  for  your  expenses,"  he 
said  pleasantly.     "  Will  you  permit  me  to  give 

79 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

you  a  check  upon  the  Banco  Nacional  for  a  small 
sum — say  fifty  pounds  ?  " 

"  Well,  since  you're  so  very  kind,  I  will  per- 
mit you.  You  needn't  cross  it — a  cross  woman 
and  a  crossed  check  are  one  as  bad  as  the  other ; 
you  can't  deal  with  either  of  them  unless  you 
have  a  banking  account.  Can  you  let  me  have  it 
now  ?  " 

"  Mais  certainemcnt ,  monsieur,  at  once." 
He  slipped  the  envelope  into  his  pocket  as  he 
turned  away,  and  hurried  across  the  floor  of  the 
cafe  to  his  little  office.  Rourke's  gaze  followed 
him  for  a  moment,  then  turned  downward.  In 
taking  out  the  nugget,  he  had  also  withdrawn 
the  letter  addressed  to  the  Mining  Machinery 
Co.,  and  knew  that  it  had  fallen  near  his  feet.  It 
was  gone  now,  and  he  smiled  gently  at  Cour- 
vois'  retreating  back. 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE    PROPER    TOOL 

JEALOUSY  is  like  a  Malay  kris  in  the  hands 
of  a  European,  being  more  likely  to  damage 
the  possessor  than  his  opponent.  A  jealous 
man  is  the  tool  of  anyone  clever  enough  to 
feign  interest  in  his  temperament,  and  ingenious 
enough  to  make  use  of  his  perverted  passion. 
George  H.  Smith  had  handled  many  men  in  his 
time,  and  was  sufficient  judge  of  human  nature 
to  have  grasped  this  essential  fact. 

He  had  made  it  his  business,  in  the  present 
instance,  to  reconnoiter  his  man's  position,  and 
inquire  closely  into  the  position  and  relations  of 
those  who  might  conceivably  be  brought  into 
touch  with  him.  The  almighty  dollar  is  power- 
ful in  Santola.  Smith  assessed  the  average  in- 
dividual soul  there  at  five  dollars,  and  had  dis- 
covered that  some  came  even  cheaper.  He  soon 
assured  himself  of  the  fact  that  Rourke  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  Jeanne,  and  he  already  knew 
that  Sefior  Jose  Mitad  was  reputed  to  be  a  fa- 
vored suitor.    He  could  see  plainly  that  Courvois 

8i 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

was  playing  the  game  on  the  good  old-fashioned 
lines,  using  Jeanne  as  a  decoy  to  secure  Rourke's 
secret,  and  nursing  the  suitor's  jealousy  in  order 
to  provide  himself  with  a  weapon  of  offense  in 
case  such  should  be  needed.  He  was  quite  sure 
that  the  Frenchman  had  already  given  Rourke 
something  on  account.  The  man  had  arrived 
in  Santola,  starving,  disreputable,  and  without 
funds;  now  he  had  set  up  a  horse,  dressed  well, 
and  smoked  good  cigars. 

This  narrowed  the  field  of  inquiry,  and  made 
it  obvious  that  Courvois  had  financed  the  Irish- 
man to  a  certain  extent.  The  motive  was  not 
quite  so  apparent.  The  proprietor  of  the  Cafe 
Fleur  de  Lys  was  by  no  means  a  fool,  and  min- 
ing propositions  are  so  notoriously  unreliable 
that  it  was  improbable  that  money  had  been  paid 
over  on  the  strength  of  the  stranger's  word. 
Either  Courvois  had  been  supplied  with  full  in- 
formation, or  there  was  some  other  factor  as  yet 
unknown  to  Smith.  Rourke's  partner  had  died, 
and  this  dead  man  had  been  an  acquaintance  of 
Courvois.  Could  it  lie  in  that?  Smith  looked 
perplexed,  but  determined  to  give  that  point  fur- 
ther consideration.  Mitad  was  the  man  from 
whom  some  information  might  be  gained. 

After  lunch,  Smith  had  his  horse  saddled  and 
rode  out  to  Mitad's  hacienda.  He  found  the 
owner  just   awakened  from  a  siesta,  and  in  a 

82 


THE    PROPER    TOOL 

grumbling  and  querulous  mood.  The  fellow  had 
been  kept,  by  some  business  connected  with  his 
farm,  from  visiting  Santola  during  the  last  three 
days,  and  was  full  of  suspicions. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  me,  Sefior  Smith?  " 
he  inquired,  ill-humoredly,  when  the  American 
had  installed  himself  under  the  shade  of  the  ve- 
randa and  made  himself  comfortable  on  two 
chairs. 

Smith  smiled  provokingly.  "  I  reckoned  you 
might  be  lonely,"  he  said,  "  so  I  came  out  to  give 
you  the  news." 

Mitad  pulled  at  his  mustache.  He  was  curi- 
ous to  know  what  had  happened,  but  not  suffi- 
ciently recovered  from  his  grumbling  mood  to 
show  signs  of  pleasure.  Smith  sized  him  up  as 
he  sat  there,  and  struck  while  the  iron  was  hot. 

"  See  here,  sonny,  that  fool  Irishman's  back 
again  in  the  old  town,  and  up  at  old  Johnny's 
amazingly  regular.  I  wonder  you  haven't  no- 
ticed how  sweet  he  is  on  the  old  man's  girl." 

"Jeanne?  "  said  Mitad,  scowling. 

"  That's  it.  I  should  have  thought  a  fellow 
like  you  would  have  tried  to  put  a  spoke  in  that 
galoot's  wheel.  But,  of  course,  if  you  did  that 
you'd  find  old  Johnny  up  against  you." 

Mitad  stared  in  sheer  astonishment :  "Against 
me?  Why,  sefior,  they  are  not  really  friends. 
Sefior  Courvois  is  suspicious  of  him." 

83 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

Smith  went  off  into  gusty  laughter.  "  So 
that's  the  kind  of  stuff  he  serves  up  to  you,  is  it  ? 
My!  Mitad,  they're  as  thick  as  thieves,  you  can 
bet.  I  suppose  you  didn't  see  that  fellow  when 
he  turned  up  first — ragged  clothes,  thin  as  a 
whipping  post,  general  down-on-his-uppers  sort 
of  look?  Well,  look  at  him  now\  Does  he  look 
poor  ?  I  guess  not !  He  looks  plump,  prosperous, 
and  spry.  Who  gave  him  the  money  for  that, 
d'ye  think  ?  Dug  it  out  of  the  ground  mebbe,  or 
picked  it  up  in  the  street.  No,  sonny,  Johnny's 
money  is  in  it." 

Mitad  pursed  his  lips.  ''  Why  should  he  tell 
me " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  haven't  knocked 
on  to  the  scheme  ?  Why,  they're  fooling  you  top 
hole.  I  tell  you  what  it  is:  that  fellow  has  got 
hold  of  a  silver  mine  up  in  the  mountains,  and 
Courvois  is  anxious  to  hook  him  for  his  girl. 
They  had  to  say  something  to  you,  knowing  you 
to  be  a  hot-tempered  sort  of  fellow  likely  to  hand 
out  trouble  in  case  you  got  the  knock — see!  " 

Mitad's  wiry  frame  trembled  with  passion, 
and  his  mustache  almost  seemed  to  bristle.  "  For 
mi  alma!  I  shall  make  trouble.  I  shall  ride  in  at 
once,  and " 

Smith  smiled  compassionately.  "  No,  sonny, 
you  won't.     You'll  stay  right  here,  and  listen  to 

84 


THE    PROPER    TOOL 

your  uncle,  George  H.  I  figures  it  out  this  way : 
You  go  into  town,  have  a  scrap  with  this  Irish- 
man, and  clean  him  up — we'll  say  you  do,  though 
he's  a  tough  proposition.  Well,  what  happens? 
Courvois  is  down  on  you,  Jeanne  won't  look  at 
you,  and  the  police  critters  run  you  into  the  cala- 
hozo.  That's  not  good  enough.  You  want  to 
get  Jeanne,  make  this  Rourke  pretty  sick,  and 
cut  into  this  silver  pile  as  well.  That's  the  right 
line,  I  guess.  You  stick  to  me,  and  I'll  see  you 
home." 

Mitad's  face  fell,  for  he  was  not  apt  at  plot- 
ting, and  the  difficulties  seemed  overwhelming. 
Still,  he  was  prepared  to  listen,  since  he  admitted 
to  himself  that  Smith  was  talking  sense.  The 
plan  commended  itself  to  him  in  its  broad  lines  at 
least.    "  But  how?  "  he  ventured. 

"  Just  this  way :  Rourke's  riding  a  skewbald 
now,  and  the  cayuse  is  an  uncommon  color.  He 
must  have  sold  the  last  animal  he  had,  and 
bought  this  one,  or  swapped  horses  somewhere 
up  country.  Now  he  was  out  from  Santola 
about  twelve  days,  which  is  six  days  each  way." 
Smith  took  a  map  from  his  pocket  and  unfolded 
it  upon  his  knee,  while  Mitad  came  to  look  over 
his  shoulder.  *'  Here's  the  town  on  this  as  the 
center,  and  here  I've  a  compass.  I  put  the  leg 
on  Santola,  and  make  the  other  swoop  round — 

8s 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

so.  If  he  did  three  hundred  miles  in  six  days, 
we  scale  out  three  hundred,  and  make  that  the 
radius  of  our  circle " 

"  A  man,  senor,  might  take  a  year  to  follow 
the  circumference  on  horseback." 

"  That's  so,  but  he  wouldn't  want  to  do  the 
whole  thing.  See  here,  Rourke  came  back  the 
other  morning  by  a  road  leading  from  Paralles. 
From  that  you  may  bet  he  was  trying  to  put  us 
off  the  scent.  You  know  the  place  lies  east  of 
this,  so  we  may  take  it  that  Rourke's  silver  claim 
lies  in  the  opposite  direction — west.  That's  a 
foolish  way  fellows  have  of  trying  to  prove  an 
alibi,  see?  " 

Mitad  brightened.     "  That  is  clever." 

"  No,  it's  common  or  imusual  sense.  Well,  I 
mark  off  a  segment  of  this  circle  due  west  of 
Paralles,  and  inside  that  section,  within  fifty  or 
so  miles  of  the  circumference,  we'll  find  the  chap 
who  sold  or  swapped  that  skewbald."  He  folded 
up  the  map,  replaced  it  with  the  compass  in  his 
pocket,  and  added,  "  Which  are  you  going  out 
for — trouble  or  money?  " 

"  Money !  "  said  Mitad  promptly. 

"  Now,  you  are  talking.  You  will  find  that 
Courvois'll  take  you  to  his  heart  when  you  have 
the  dollars." 

"  So  I  shall  have  my  revenge  as  well  ?  " 
86 


THE    PROPER    TOOL 

"  That's  right.  I  am  glad  you  are  coming 
into  this.  Don't  give  the  show  away,  though. 
Keep  on  the  same  terms  with  old  Johnny  and  the 
girl,  and  don't  let  Rourke  see  that  you  have  got 
the  hump.  You  have  got  to  search  the  curve  ly- 
ing between  Pierola  and  Sandores,  with  Copar 
about  midway.  I  believe  this  mine  is  going  to  be 
a  big  thing,  so  don't  spare  expense.  Can  you  go 
soon?  " 

"  Yes,  sefior,  I  can  start  when  the  darkness 
falls." 

"  Bully  for  you !  Now,  I  must  be  moving.  I 
have  a  bit  of  business  to  do  at  the  post  office. 
You  know  your  cue.  A  gringo,  pretty  tall,  and 
heavy,  mounted  on  a  roan,  who  bought  an  odd- 
looking  skewbald  a  week  back.    Bye-bye,  sonny." 

Smith  mounted  and  rode  back  to  the  town, 
directing  his  way  to  the  chief  post  office  in  the 
plaza.  On  entering  he  was  somewhat  surprised 
to  find  that  his  old  friend,  the  official  in  charge, 
was  not  to  be  seen,  but  that  his  place  had  been 
taken  by  a  fat  young  man,  with  a  rather  dandi- 
fied air,  and  a  look  of  amiable  omniscience. 

Smith  walked  up,  felt  in  his  pockets,  and  pro- 
duced a  crackling  slip  of  paper,  which  he  held  in 
his  hand  out  of  sight.  "  Good  day,"  he  began  in 
Spanish.  "  Has  my  old  friend  Senor  Larria  gone 
on  holiday  ?  " 

87 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

The  young  man's  face  assumed  an  insolent 
expression :  "  No,  senor,  he  has  left  Santola  for 
good." 

"  Oh,  has  he?    And  how's  that?  " 

The  young  man  toyed  with  a  promising  mus- 
tache, and  shot  his  immaculate  cufifs.  "  The 
authorities  have  removed  him,"  he  said  simply. 
'*  But  what  can  I  do  for  the  sefior  ?  " 

Smith  took  the  crackling  piece  of  paper  and 
pushed  it  across  the  counter  under  cover  of  his 
fingers.  "What  d'ye  call  that,  sonny?"  he  in- 
quired in  a  low  tone. 

The  young  man  took  it,  scanned  it  closely, 
and  let  it  droD  from  his  hand.  "  This,  sefior,  ap- 
pears to  be  a  United  States  banknote  for  one 
hundred  dollars." 

"  What's  it  good  for?  "  asked  Smith,  leaving 
it  where  it  had  fallen,  and  assuming  a  jocular 
tone. 

"  Good  for  ?  To  spend,  sefior,  I  presume. 
No  doubt  they  will  cash  it  for  you  at  the  Banco 
Nacional." 

Smith  bit  his  lip.  This  fellow  could  not  be 
had  cheap.  He  produced  another  note  and 
passed  it  across  the  counter.  "  Is  that  good, 
too?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Quite,"  said  the  young  man,  examining  it 
insolently. 

88 


THE    PROPER    TOOL 

"  Say !  "  said  Smith  angrily,  but  keeping  his 
voice  low,  "  how  much  do  you  want?  " 

The  young  man  turned  his  shoulder.  "  What 
can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  there's  a  big  Irishman  called  Rourke 
may  be  coming  in  here  to  send  off  a  letter,  and 
as  I  know  the  friend  he's  writing  to,  but  not  the 
address,  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  it,  see !  " 

The  new  official  looked  calmly  over  his  shoul- 
der at  a  man  who  had  just  come  in  through  the 
swing  doors. 

"In  what  way  can  I  serve  you,  sefior?"  he 
inquired,  ignoring  Smith  completely. 

''  Well,  if  it  isn't  George  H. !  "  came  Rourke's 
voice  from  behind.  ''  Excuse  me  anyway,  till  I 
send  a  letter  off." 

Smith  smiled  wryly.  The  fat  young  man  was 
explaining  now  to  the  newcomer  that  he  had 
taken  charge  of  the  office  that  day,  owing  to  the 
dismissal  of  his  predecessor. 

"  What  for?  "  asked  Rourke,  with  every  ap- 
pearance of  enjoyment. 

"  Taking  bribes,"  said  the  official,  staring 
hard  at  the  American  bills  on  the  counter,  and 
laughing  a  little.  Smith  set  his  teeth  hard  and 
began  to  back  out  of  the  office,  but  the  young 
man  looked  up  and  extended  a  hand. 

"  These,  sehor,  belong  to  yon.  I  think,"  he 
said,  thrusting  forward  the  notes. 

89 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  Thanks,"  drawled  Smith,  as  he  took  them, 
and  withdrew. 

"  You  come  into  a  fortune,  George?  "  Rourke 
threw  after  him  as  he  went  out.  "  Sure  it's  care- 
less you  are  in  the  handling  of  money.  You'll 
be  losing  it  one  of  these  days." 

Smith  went  back  to  his  house  in  a  furious 
temper.  This  last  indiscretion  had  spoiled  his 
chances  of  bringing  the  negotiations  he  had  ini- 
tiated to  a  successful  termination.  Rourke  knew 
now  that  he  had  been  attempting  to  tamper  with 
his  mails,  and  was  hardly  likely  to  let  him  take 
up  the  thread  of  the  business  at  the  point  at 
which  it  had  been  dropped.  Smith  had  not  real- 
ized that  the  other  had  no  further  need  of  him, 
having  used  him  only  as  a  figurehead  to  back  his 
blufif  with  Courvois.  Still,  now  that  straightfor- 
ward bargaining  was  out  of  the  question,  there 
remained  the  plot  which  he  had  outlined  for 
Mitad's  benefit. 

He  summed  up  the  situation  very  shortly. 
Rourke,  probably,  had  discovered  a  genuine 
claim,  and  was  anxious  to  exploit  it.  But,  hav- 
ing no  capital,  it  was  necessary  that  he  should 
find  some  one  to  finance  the  necessary  mining 
operations.  The  whip  hand  lay  with  the  man 
who  could  bring  in  capital,  and  the  prospector's 
only  chance  of  securing  a  big  price  for  his  claim 
lay  in  introducing  the  element  of  competition. 

90 


THE    PROPER    TOOL 

So  he  had  tried  to  play  off  Smith  against  Cour- 
vois.  The  American  hoped  to  trace  Rourke  to 
the  locaHty  in  which  the  silver  had  been  discov- 
ered, and,  if  the  claim  had  not  already  been 
legally  secured,  to  open  negotiations  with  the 
Federal  Government  for  the  purchase  of  the 
land.  His  fear  was  that  Courvois  should  fore- 
stall him;  his  hope  lay  in  the  fact  that  the 
Frenchman  was  cautious  where  money  was  con- 
cerned. How  could  he  mar  Courvois'  chance? 
he  asked  himself.  It  struck  him  that  the  way 
might  lie  more  clearly  before  him  if  he  could 
ascertain  what  was  the  common  interest  connect- 
ing Rourke,  Courvois,  and  the  late  M.  Roquille. 
But  the  first  thing  was  to  trace  Rourke's  move- 
ments previous  to  his  arrival  in  Santola.  Every- 
thing might  hinge  on  that. 

He  felt  sure  that  he  had  been  right  in  send- 
ing Mitad  to  search  to  the  westward.  The 
haciendero  might  return  in  a  fortnight  with  use- 
ful information,  and  then  it  would  be  possible 
to  work  out  the  scheme  in  detail.  This  plan  was 
not  a  benevolent  one,  but  then  benevolence  had 
never  been  Smith's  outstanding  virtue.  In  the 
present  instance,  the  question  did  not  even  seem 
to  have  a  moral  side.  Rourke  would  do  him  if 
he  could,  and  most  certainly  he  would  do  Rourke, 
if  that  were  possible.    A  la  guerre  comme  a  la 

7  91 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

guerre.     That  was  the  motto  for  the  financier 
as  for  the  fighting  man. 

These  reflections  soothed  Smith,  and  the  mol- 
Hfying  influence  of  toast  water  calmed  him  and 
made  his  thoughts  flow  into  a  mood  of  gentle 
reminiscence. 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE    LETTER 

JEANNE  had  been  unconsciously  attracted 
by  Rourke.  At  first  this  result  had  been 
achieved  by  the  contrast  he  afforded  to 
the  other  habitues  of  the  cafe;  later,  it  was  due 
to  the  working  of  those  subtle  psychic  thought 
processes  which  finally  reach  their  highest  point 
in  the  passion,  or  emotion,  we  call  Love. 

Women  attached  to  a  popular  cafe  in  a  Latin 
country  cannot  avoid  being  brought  into  contact 
with  degenerates  and  undesirables,  and  with 
others  less  culpable  who  imagine  that  the  price 
of  a  drink  entitles  them  to  a  privileged  intimacy 
with  the  feminine  employees.  Santola  was  no 
worse,  and  no  better,  than  its  neighbors.  Most 
of  the  officials  were  corrupt  and  loose-living ;  and 
the  rest  of  the  population  paid  them  the  sincer- 
est  flattery.  Jeanne,  perhaps,  was  better  able  to 
cope  with  these  men,  owing  to  her  standing  as 
daughter  of  the  cafe  proprietor ;  at  the  same  time 
she  could  not  refuse  to  touch  pitch,  although  re- 
maining uncontaminated  by  it.     She  had  seen 

93 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

men  at  their  worst;  and  Rourke's  refreshing 
honesty  of  purpose  singled  him  out  as  a  man  to 
be  trusted.  At  least,  he  did  not  assault  her  ears 
with  unpleasant  proposals,  or  irritate  her  by  a 
show  of  amorous  aggressiveness.  That  was 
something  in  a  town  where  humor  and  love  were 
mostly  seen  in  their  crudest  and  least  agreeable 
forms ;  blunted  tastes  preferring  coarse  and  cog- 
nizable flavors  to  those  of  a  more  subtle  and  deli- 
cate nature. 

Jeanne  was  as  yet  unaware  of  the  depth  of 
the  impression  the  Irishman  had  made  upon  her 
heart;  she  knew  only  that  his  presence  gave  her 
pleasure,  and  that  the  day  when  he  did  not  ap- 
pear at  the  cafe  seemed  longer  and  more  fa- 
tiguing than  usual.  Even  this  partial  knowledge 
made  the  girl  uneasy.  Courvois  had  instructed 
her  to  show  herself  at  her  best,  and  to  draw 
Rourke  into  speaking  of  his  career,  antecedent 
to  his  arrival  in  Santola.  At  first  she  had  ac- 
cepted these  instructions  unquestioningly,  since 
they  involved  nothing  more  serious  than  a  men- 
tal effort  to  keep  herself  at  her  highest  level. 
Lately,  however,  she  had  begun  to  feel  that  her 
part  was  an  ungrateful  one,  savoring  somewhat 
of  spying,  and  hardly  likely  to  appeal  to  an 
honest  and  ingenuous  nature.  So  long  as  she 
believed  her  father  to  be  on  friendly  terms  with 
his  customer,  the  task  was  not  intolerable;  but 

94 


THE    LETTER 

certain  expressions  let  drop  by  the  former,  cou- 
pled with  his  use  of  Mitad  and  the  water-seller, 
made  her  doubtful  whether  any  friendship  ex- 
isted between  the  two  men. 

She  was  speaking  the  truth  when  she  told 
Mitad  that  she  knew  nothing  of  her  father's 
affairs.  To  her,  Roquille  was  but  a  name,  while 
of  the  mining  claim,  and  its  possibilities,  she 
knew  nothing  at  all.  Circumstances  combined  to 
make  her  suspicious  of  her  father's  motives,  and 
it  occurred  to  her  that  it  would  be  unworthy  to 
divulge  any  confidences  Rourke  might  give  to 
her  unless  she  was  perfectly  certain  that  they 
would  not  be  used  to  his  detriment.  Courvois 
had  not  allowed  for  the  personal  equation,  and 
had  made  no  allowance  for  this  contingency.  He 
had  spoken  glibly  of  the  influence  of  love  upon 
a  woman's  heart,  hardly  realizing  the  truth  of 
his  own  words.  Indeed,  he  praised  Jeanne  to 
himself,  for  of  late  she  had  shown  unusual  ani- 
mation, and  already  seemed  to  be  on  intimate 
terms  with  Rourke. 

Jeanne  was  incapable  of  treachery.  Now, 
when  she  knew  what  was  expected  of  her,  she 
asked  no  more  questions.  At  the  same  time  she 
was  not  prepared  to  warn  Rourke  of  the  way 
the  wind  was  blowing.  Such  a  course  would 
involve  her  father,  and  might  seem  unfilial,  if 
honest.     She  was  perplexed  at  these  new  cross- 

95 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

currents  in  her  mind.  Until  now  life  had  been 
a  comparatively  simple  matter,  since  the  basic 
problems  were  solved  for  her  by  her  position. 
She  had  eaten,  slept,  and  lived  with  a  healthy 
disregard  of  the  problems  of  existence.  Now 
she  had  to  think  for  herself,  to  decide  an  ethical 
question,  to  be  loyal  to  her  father  and  her  lover 
— though  she  had  not  yet  called  Rourke  that 
even  to  herself. 

What  was  the  man,  the  personality,  behind 
Rourke's  jovial  exterior?  That  question  often 
presented  itself  to  her.  Something  told  her  that 
he  was  not  altogether  a  farceur,  that  beneath  a 
top  layer  of  gayety  there  must  lie  a  depth  of  seri- 
ous and  virile  thought.  That  aspect  of  his  na- 
ture had  peeped  out  sometimes;  revealing  itself 
in  a  look,  a  grave  word,  an  expression  of  mo- 
mentary sadness.  How  could  she  be  expected 
to  sound  the  depths  of  the  Celtic  temperament, 
which  has  puzzled  amateur  psychologists  of  all 
countries? 

Rourke  came  into  the  cafe  after  he  had  left 
the  post  office,  and  coming  straight  across  to 
her,  greeted  her  with  his  usual  gay  air.  "  So 
there  you  are,  mademoiselle,  looking  as  lovely 
as  ever,"  he  said.  He  beckoned  to  a  waiter, 
ordered  cofTee,  and  begged  Jeanne's  permission 
to  smoke.  "  It's  a  busy  man  I  am  these  days," 
he  went  on  presently.     "  It's  robbing  myself  of 

96 


THE    LETTER 

your  society  I've  been,  and  sure  there's  no  busi- 
ness worth  it." 

"  No,  Monsieur  Rourke — "  she  said,  then 
stopped  and  smiled  confusedly.  "  Pardon;  I  did 
not  quite  understand  what  you  meant." 

He  bent  forward  a  little,  and  spoke  under 
his  breath:  "It  sounds  stiff  like — 'Monsieur.' 
Couldn't  you  get  up  your  courage  to  call  me  by 
my  name,  Jeanne  ?  " 

She  flushed,  and  did  not  meet  his  eyes. 
"Monsieur!" 

"  No,  Desmond,"  he  said  gently. 

"  Monsieur  Desmon'  then,"  she  ventured. 

A  little  light  of  triumph  shone  in  his  eyes. 
He  was  wonderfull}^  moved  by  such  a  slight  con- 
fession. He  lost  his  customary  assurance  for 
a  moment,  and  looked  half  his  years ;  ingenuous, 
glad,  and  indefinably  touched.  "  Thank  you, 
Jeanne,"  he  said,  quite  simply. 

There  was  an  awkward  silence. 

The  old  Rourke  came  back  quite  suddenly. 
"  The  business  is  getting  on  famously,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "  Where's  your  father,  by  the  way?  I 
lost  a  letter,  and  maybe  I  dropped  it  here  ?  " 

Jeanne  looked  indifferent  once  more.  "  I 
will  fetch  him.  For  myself  I  have  not  seen  it, 
your  letter." 

Courvois  came  out  of  his  office  and  joined 
Rourke.     Jeanne  had  not  come  with  him.     The 

97 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

cafe  proprietor  held  out  a  letter  and  offered  it 
to  Rourke :  "  I  found  this  on  the  floor  of  the 
cafe,"  he  said.  "  There  was  nothing  to  indicate 
the  owner,  so  I  kept  it  in  my  bureau.  Jeanne 
has  just  now  assured  me  that  monsieur  was  look- 
ing for  a  letter  he  had  lost." 

Rourke  snatched  it  almost  rudely,  and,  turn- 
ing it  over,  began  to  examine  the  fastening. 

Courvois  flushed  a  little,  but  spoke  in  a  bland 
voice:  "I  need  hardly  assure  monsieur  that  it 
has  not  been  touched." 

Rourke  looked  at  him  steadily.  "  I'm  sure  it 
hasn't.  It's  of  no  consequence,  anyway.  It  was 
given  me  to  post  by  someone  I  know,  but  I  clean 
forgot  about  it." 

Courvois'  face  showed  a  trace  of  amuse- 
ment. He  had  seen  Rourke's  indorsement  on  the 
check,  and  knew  that  the  address  was  in  the 
same  handwriting.  Here  was  proof  positive 
that  the  claim  was  genuine,  and  he  almost  re- 
solved to  clinch  matters  at  once.  Then  the 
caution  of  his  temperament  came  uppermost. 
Five  thousand  pounds  was  one  hundred  and 
twenty-five  thousand  francs.  That  was  a  large 
sum  of  money.  Before  he  paid  over  that  sum  he 
must  have  incontrovertible  proofs.  The  Irishman 
must  soon  tire.  As  time  passed  and  no  definite 
offer  for  the  claim  was  forthcoming,  he  would 
get  impatient,  and  be  willing  to  let  the  prospec- 

98 


THE    LETTER 

tive  purchaser  inspect  the  claim.  It  would  be 
better  to  wait. 

From  this  it  may  be  assumed  that  Courvois 
had  not  respected  the  inviolacy  of  the  envelope. 
The  finding  of  the  letter  was  a  chance  in  a 
thousand,  and  he  had  not  hesitated  to  make  use 
of  it.  There  was  no  seal  to  negotiate,  only 
common  gum  which  yielded  to  the  influence  of 
hot  steam,  and  permitted  him  to  refasten  the 
envelope  when  he  had  mastered  the  contents. 
Rourke  was  intending  to  purchase  machinery  to 
work  the  claim.  Then  Smith  must  be  out  of  the 
affair.  There  must  be  something  clumsy  about 
the  American,  for  all  his  reputation.  For  this 
Irishman  was  a  very  indifferent  kind  of  fool, 
easily  to  be  turned  round  a  wise  man's  finger. 

Rourke's  voice  broke  in  upon  his  train  of 
thought :  "  Smith's  been  at  me  again,"  he  said 
softly. 

The  name  came  so  pat  that  Courvois  started 
involuntarily.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  the  other 
had  read  his  thoughts.  This  gave  him  a  mo- 
mentarily uncomfortable  sensation.  "  You  did 
not  inform  me  that  he  had  spoken  to  you  of  the 
business,  monsieur." 

"  Sure,  I  thought  you'd  guessed  it." 

The  other  shook  his  head,  and  turned  the 
subject :  "  Do  you  not  find  this  country  strange 

99 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

after  your  own  country,  Ireland?"  he  inquired 
in  a  conversational  tone. 

"  Not  more  than  you  would  think  it  strange 
after  Paris." 

Courvois  hesitated  a  moment.  "  Ah,  Paris 
— but  it  is  not  the  Paris  that  used  to  be.  It  is 
now  a  place  of  scoundrels  and  place-hunters,  of 
the  bourgeois,  and  of  those  incomparable  canaille 
who  call  themselves  republicans." 

"  Sure  that's  old  history,"  said  Rourke, 
watching  him  while  he  sipped  his  coffee.  "  That 
was  long  after  your  time — for  I  don't  suppose 
you  call  the  Napoleon  lot  royalty,  at  all.  How 
did  you  like  living  among  such  fellows?  " 

"  Me !  I  did  not  like  it ;  but  I  have  not  been 
in  France  for  a  good  many  years.  Not  since  I 
came  to  South  America." 

Courvois  answered  the  question  good-hu- 
moredly.  It  seemed  probable  that  Roquille  had 
not  mentioned  Martinique,  but  that  Rourke  took 
him  for  a  Frenchman  born.  After  all,  the  de- 
lirium must  have  been  slight.  And  Roquille  had 
never  been  a  man  to  talk,  which  was  very  for- 
tunate when  all  things  were  considered.  It 
seemed  that  he  must  regard  the  Irishman  as  an 
unconscious  benefactor.  Had  he  not  brought 
the  news  of  Roquille's  death  ?  Courvois  had  not 
strictly  adhered  to  the  truth  when  he  led  Rourke 
to  infer  that  he  had  received  a  communication 

lOO 


THE    LETTER 

from  Roquille  within  the  past  year  or  so.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  their  last  meeting  had  taken  place 
quite  twenty  years  before,  and  since  that  time  he 
had  been  unable  to  learn  what  had  become  of  the 
fellow. 

The  shadow  of  Roquille  had  lain  heavy 
across  those  twenty  years,  but  now  it  was  lifted, 
and  Courvois  rejoiced. 

"  I  never  saw  Paris  in  my  life,"  said  the 
other,  smiling.     "What's  it  like?" 

**  The  most  beautiful  city  in  the  world,  mon- 
sieur. One  cannot  imagine  such  a  charming 
place.  Ah,  the  beautiful  buildings,  the  broad 
boulevards,  the  incomparable.  C'est  une  ville 
de  reve.  But,  ah,  my  poor  Paris!  abandoned  to 
the  canaille,  I  assure  monsieur.  It  is  enough  to 
make  one  weep  tears  of  blood." 

"  Well,  it's  you  ought  to  be  glad  to  be  out 
of  it  then,"  said  Rourke,  surprised  to  discover 
genuine  emotion  in  the  other's  tone.  ''  I  sup- 
pose you'll  never  go  back." 

"  Never,  monsieur.  The  emotions  are  not  to 
be  controlled.  I  shall  never  see  France  under 
the  ancien  regime,  and  it  is  not  for  me  to  make 
myself  one  with  the  sans-cidottes." 

"  Sure  they  all  wear  breeches  now,"  said 
Rourke.  "  It's  back  in  the  Middle  Ages  you 
ought  to  be,  Courvois,  your  vocabulary's  so  out- 
of-date.     Never  mind  me,  though,  I'm  only  jok- 

lOI 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

ing".  I've  a  sneaking  kind  of  respect  for  royalty 
m3''self,  especially  wid  their  crowns  on,  when 
they're  togged  up  in  their  best." 

Uncertainty  swings  a  man  unwillingly  be- 
tween the  opposite  poles  of  hope  and  disappoint- 
ment. Influenced  by  each  in  turn,  he  is  alter- 
nately attracted  by  the  one  and  the  other;  and 
cannot  come  to  rest  midway  in  the  philosophic 
attitude  of  chastened  expectation.  It  is  some- 
thing like  the  case  of  the  dog  with  the  bone  and 
its  reflection;  only  complicated  by  the  fact  that 
bone  and  reflection  appear  exactly  alike.  This 
was  Courvois'  case:  At  one  time  he  was  as  sure 
of  the  verity  of  the  silver  claim  as  of  his  own 
existence;  at  another  he  was  equally  certain  that 
it  had  no  real  claim  to  be  considered  genuine. 
How  to  act  under  these  perplexing  circum- 
stances? If  he  financed  Rourke,  he  might  lose 
his  money;  if  he  did  not  finance  Rourke,  he 
might  lose  the  opportunity  of  making  a  fortune. 

Yet  there  was  always  Roquille,  whose  weight 
counted  only  in  one  side  of  the  balance.  Alive, 
he  had  been  silent,  grim,  menacing;  dead,  his 
silence  became  an  active  threat,  and  the  memory 
of  his  inflexible  resolution  was  still  a  menace. 
Courvois'  heart  had  been  lightened  by  the  in- 
formation he  had  received.  He  was  assured  as 
a  general  fact  that  delirium  induced  by  malaria 
might  be  slight;  Rourke  hinted  that,  in  this  par- 

I02 


THE    LETTER 

ticular  case,  it  had  been  slight.  Rourke,  again, 
was  under  the  impression  that  Courvois  had 
come  from  Paris,  and  did  not  seem  to  be  aware 
that  he  had  Hved  in  Martinique.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  a  simple  question,  because  every 
question  has  two  meanings,  and  every  man  who 
is  asked  to  judge  must  take  one  side  while 
mournfully  aware  that  the  one  he  has  chosen 
may  be  the  incorrect  side.  Which  proves  that  to 
be  sometimes  right  you  must  be  often  wrong. 

Rourke  perplexed  Courvois  enormously,  be- 
cause he  did  not  try  to  make  up  his  mind  for 
him.  Tacitly  he  said :  "  I  put  the  case  before 
you.  It  may  be  true  or  it  may  not.  Do  what 
you  please,  but  do  not  blame  me  if  you  lose.'* 
You  can  conceive  his  difficulty  in  the  face  of 
such  an  aggravating  statement,  and  imagine 
Rourke  watching  with  restrained  amusement  his 
restless  efforts  to  decide  upon  which  horn  of  the 
dilemma  he  should  impale  himself. 

It  is  possible  to  dislike  the  man  who  tells  you 
a  lie;  but  inevitable  that  you  should  hate  a  man 
who  will  not  guarantee  to  speak  the  truth.  The 
consistently  untruthful  person  can  injure  no  one ; 
but  the  occasional  liar  is  dangerous.  All  this 
affair  hinged  on  Rourke's  veracity.  If  that  was 
unimpeachable,  then  the  mine  could  be  worked, 
and  Roquille  regarded  as  a  spent  force.  That 
was  what  Courvois  said  to  himself,  as  he  sat  at 

103 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

the  table  opposite  his  companion,  and  smoked  his 
cigarette:     "If " 

Rourke  finished  his  coffee,  and  rose:  "Well, 
I  must  be  off.  You  see,  Courvois,  I  can't  afford 
to  waste  time  over  this  business.  The  last  look 
at  the  place  has  heartened  me  a  power.  I  don't 
think  I  can  leave  it  undecided  much  longer,  d'ye 
mind." 

As  he  spoke,  he  knew  that  what  he  had  said 
did  not  represent  the  real  state  of  his  mind.  He 
knew  that  he  had  almost  screwed  Courvois  up 
to  the  point  at  which  it  would  be  possible  to  ask 
him  to  pay  down  a  lump  sum  for  the  claim.  His 
bluff  with  regard  to  Smith  had  worked  well. 
Courvois'  cupidity  had  been  aroused  first.  Then 
he  had  been  driven  to  suspect  that  the  Irishman 
was  about  to  take  the  matter  out  of  his  hands, 
and  open  negotiations  elsewhere.  In  effect,  he 
saw  a  golden  opportunity  slowly  passing  out  of 
his  grasp,  and  into  the  hands  of  the  American 
speculator. 

Rourke  knew  that  delay  at  such  moments  is 
often  fatal,  yet  he  hesitated  to  strike.  The 
original  situation  had  been  complicated  by  the 
introduction  of  a  new  factor — Jeanne.  Rourke 
wanted  to  see  her,  to  speak  with  her,  to  enjoy 
her  companionship.  Unconsciously,  almost  in- 
voluntarily, he  had  formed  a  tie  which  became 
daily  more  impossible  to  break.     He  now  knew 

104 


THE    LETTER 

that  he  could  count  upon  Courvois  for  a  regular 
check;  but  that  state  of  affairs  could  not  last 
for  ever.  Every  lingering  day  would  bring 
doubts  into  the  other's  mind.  There  were  the  two 
policies:  Strike  at  once  and  the  business  was 
safely  despatched;  or  delay  the  stroke  and  the 
issue  might  be  in  doubt.  Where  there  had  been 
one  obsession  there  were  now  two.  Courvois' 
was  the  dead  Roquille;  Rourke's  the  living 
Jeanne. 

Courvois  was  looking  serious :  "  Monsieur, 
is  it  not  possible  for  you  to  let  me  see  this  claim, 
to  secure  some  ore  from  it,  and  have  it  as- 
sayed? " 

Rourke  shook  his  head :  "  It's  not,  I'm 
afraid." 

He  did  not  want  to  hear  Courvois;  he  was 
afraid  that  he  might  make  an  offer  to  comply 
with  the  imposed  conditions.  From  a  common- 
sense  point  of  view  that  was  preposterous.  He 
had  wished  to  secure  the  sum  of  five  thousand 
pounds  for  the  mining  rights,  and  now  that 
lay  within  his  reach.  He  was  wilfully  blind  to 
the  real  motive  underlying  this  procrastinating 
policy.  He  would  not,  as  yet,  admit  to  himself 
that  a  woman  could  interfere  with  his  plans,  or 
that  his  emotions  could  overmaster  his  business 
sense.  So  he  found  it  necessary  to  believe  that 
the  time  was  not  yet  ripe ;  and  the  man  who  finds 

105 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

it  a  necessity  to  believe  anything,  right  or  wrong, 
ends  by  believing  it. 

Courvois  saw  his  hesitation,  and  considered 
that  it  was  assumed.  The  man,  in  his  view,  was 
endeavoring  to  increase  the  value  of  his  posses- 
sion by  exhibiting  a  seeming  unwillingness  to 
part  with  it.  What  was  really  an  impulse,  he 
misread  as  an  attempt  to  secure  an  advantage, 
and  the  thought  made  him  the  more  eager  to 
press  the  matter. 

"  Do  not  go  yet,  monsieur,"  he  said  amiably. 
"  We  have  not  yet  made  any  progress.  You  as- 
sure me  that  you  will  sell  the  claim  for  five  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  I  am  anxious  to  deal  with 
you " 

Rourke  started,  and  made  a  gesture  of  an- 
noyance. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  to  deal  with  you.  I  wish 
it." 

Rourke  was  driven  with  his  back  to  the  wall. 
"  Look  here,  my  brave  boy,"  he  said  recklessly, 
''do  you  know  what  you're  doing?  You're 
wanting  to  buy  a  pig  in  a  poke,  that's  what 
you're  wanting.  Sure  you  haven't  seen  the  claim 
even,  and  I  won't  promise  to  show  it  you  either." 

If  Courvois  had  had  Smith's  knowledge  of 
mining  claims,  he  might  have  made  the  sugges- 
tion which  Smith  had  knowingly  left  unmade. 
So  long  as  Rourke  had  no  legal  title  to  the  prop- 

io6 


THE    LETTER 

erty — that  is,  no  other  title  than  that  claimed  by 
a  prospector — the  American  would  not  suggest 
that  the  claim  should  be  leased  from  the  Federal 
Government.  But  the  Frenchman  was  in  a  dif- 
ferent position.  He  should  have  insisted  on  this. 
Rourke  could  not  object  to  disclose  the  locality, 
once  it  had  been  made  his  own  by  a  legal  agree- 
ment. He  took  up  that  attitude  because,  as  he 
pleaded,  an  unsecured  claim  might  be  seized  by 
anyone  fortunate  enough  to  come  across  it. 

But  Courvois  was  not  a  mining  expert.  The 
claim  had  now  assumed  a  glittering  shape  which 
hung  ever  before  his  eyes,  rich  in  potentialities, 
and  leading  to  great  wealth. 

Every  man  is  hindered  in  bargaining  by 
some  eccentricity  of  temperament.  It  may  be 
that  he  is  too  impatient,  too  circumspect,  too  en- 
terprising, or  too  lethargic.  Courvois'  fault  was 
that  he  had  economical  instincts.  He  was  eager 
to  clinch  the  matter  now,  but  thought  to  make 
more  advantageous  terms. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  said,  with  a  grandiloquent 
gesture,  "  I  will  give  you  four  thousand 
pounds ! " 

Rourke  bit  his  lip;  and  that  action  serves  to 

show  his  changed  outlook.     A  few  weeks  back 

he  would  have  jumped  at  this  offer ;  now  he  was 

annoyed  by  it.    True,  his  end  would  be  secured, 

8  107 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

and  his  purpose  in  coming  to  Santola  fuliilled, 
but 

It  would  mean  leaving  Jeanne.  He  realized 
that  at  once.  Until  this  he  had  not  admitted  to 
himself  that  she  was  the  preponderating  factor; 
perhaps,  because  she  had  only  lately  grown  to  be 
that.  Confronted  with  this  knowledge,  he  was 
once  more  driven  to  mental  evasion ;  refusing  to 
consider  the  unreasonableness  of  his  attitude; 
but  jumping  readily  at  the  excuse  offered  to  put 
off  the  settlement  to  a  more  distant  date. 

"  I  tell  you  I  won't  haggle  about  it !  "  he  said, 
with  a  fair  assumption  of  anger.  "  Five  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  not  a  penny  less.  The  thing 
goes  at  that,  so  you  may  take  it  or  leave  it." 

He  settled  himself  in  his  poncho,  and  took  a 
stride  up  the  cafe.  "  I'll  be  in  again  one  day," 
he  added,  more  amiably. 

"  Patience,  and  again  patience,"  said  Cour- 
vois  under  his  breath,  as  he  watched  the  tall  fig- 
ure strolling  leisurely  from  the  cafe.  "  I  shall 
have  it  for  four  thousand  after  all,  if  that  im- 
becile American  does  not  interfere." 

At  that  moment,  it  occurred  to  him  that  since 
Roquille  was  dead  and  Rourke  presumably  ig- 
norant of  his  past  life,  there  would  be  no  further 
necessity  to  diminish  his  bank  account  for  the 
latter's  benefit.  So  far  he  had  thrown  away  one 
hundred    pounds    without    tangible    result.      In 

io8 


THE    LETTER 

future  he  would  only  disburse  such  amounts  as 
might  serve  to  give  him  a  lien  upon  the  Irish- 
man. This  was  one  of  the  economies  in  which 
his  soul  delighted. 

Rourke,  meanwhile,  walked  out  of  the  town, 
and  reaching  a  clump  of  tall  grass,  drew  the 
letter  from  his  pockets,  and  tore  it  into  insig- 
nificant fragments,  which  he  disposed  of  by  scat- 
tering them  among  the  herbage. 

This  action  was  not  symbolic;  it  simply 
meant  that  the  letter  had  served  its  purpose,  and 
might  now  be  destroyed.  Which  was  strictly 
true. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

LOOPHOLES    OF   RETREAT 

HILE  George  H.  Smith  made  no  prog- 
ress in  one  branch  of  inquiry,  that 
regarding  the  relations  of  Jean  Cour- 
vois  and  the  late  M.  Roquille,  he  was  more  suc- 
cessful in  the  other.  Sefior  Mitad  had  scored, 
as  have  so  many  successful  commanders,  by 
going  outside  the  strict  limit  of  his  instructions. 
He  was  lazy  by  nature,  and  contemplated  the 
prospect  of  an  extended  search  with  feelings  of 
unmingled  annoyance,  so,  instead  of  following 
the  curve  mapped  out  for  him  by  his  partner,  he 
rode  directly  west  from  Santola,  and  happened 
to  call  in  at  a  pulpcria  in  the  village  of  Rojas, 
which  is  situated  some  fifty  miles  distant  from 
Copar. 

Smith  received  the  news  from  him  by  letter; 
with  the  further  information  that  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  discovering  the  man  who  had  sold  the 
skewbald  mare.  From  this  individual,  he  learned 
that  the  animal  had  been  purchased  by  Sefior 
Seguien,  of  Copar.     He  went  to  that  place  as 

no 


LOOPHOLES    OF    RETREAT 

fast  as  horseflesh  could  carry  him,  interviewed 
Seguien,  and  had  no  difficulty  in  identifying 
Rourke  as  the  ultimate  purchaser  of  the  mare. 
Then  came  a  check.  Seguien  informed  him  that 
the  stranger  had  ridden  in  from  the  direction 
of  Santola,  but  where  he  had  come  from  previous 
to  that  he  was  unable  to  say. 

Meager  as  it  might  be,  this  information 
formed  conclusive  evidence  that  Rourke's  find 
lay  to  this  side  of  Santola,  and  not,  as  he  had 
wished  them  to  believe,  to  the  east.  Further,  the 
claim  must  be  situated  on  the  mountains,  as  the 
lower  lying  land,  and  the  plains  were  not  metal- 
liferous. Mitad  praised  Smith's  foresight,  and 
already  felt  that  wealth  lay  within  his  grasp. 

From  his  letter  it  appeared  that  he  had  ques- 
tioned Seguien  with  regard  to  transport  facili- 
ties across  the  sierra,  and  discovered  that  only 
three  passes  traversed  it;  one  ''Mule's  Pass," 
another  "  The  Pass  of  the  Three  Rocks,"  a  third 
"  The  Pass  of  the  Dog."  The  first  two  were 
commonly  used  by  the  arrieros  for  their  mule 
trains;  the  third  was  disused  on  account  of  a 
superstition  which  was  current  locally.  The  su- 
perstitious mestizo  evidently  shared  the  natives' 
fears,  and  announced  that  only  the  two  first 
passes  need  be  searched,  since  it  was  impossible 
that  any  sane  man  should  live  near  the  haunt  of 
an  apparition. 

Ill 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

At  the  moment  of  writing,  he  was  about  to 
set  out  on  this  quest,  and  hoped  to  have  good 
news  soon. 

Smith  laughed  consumedly  over  the  haunted 
pass.  These  half-breeds  were  afraid  of  their 
own  shadows,  he  told  himself.  The  proper  place 
to  look  for  traces  of  Rourke  was  the  very  place 
where  the  natives  were  least  likely  to  venture. 
This  "  Pass  of  the  Dog  "  promised  well ;  indeed 
the  claim  itself  might  lie  in  or  about  it. 

Impatient  as  he  was  of  all  prepossessions 
which  seemed  efifete  or  not  sufficiently  modern, 
he  knew  something  of  the  mestizo  temperament, 
and  was  well  aware  that  he  need  not  expect 
Mitad  to  assist  him  in  this  particular.  The  lat- 
ter may  have  been  a  fire-eater,  fond  of  brag- 
gadocio and  boasting,  but  he  had  undoubted 
courage,  using  the  word  in  its  ordinary  sense. 
Superstition,  however,  grows  in  the  bones,  and 
cannot  be  devitalized  by  appeals  to  pure  reason. 
Mitad  would  face  a  man,  but  he  would  not  face 
a  possible  phantom,  be  it  man  or  beast. 

In  laying  his  plans  Smith  had  to  make  allow- 
ance for  his  partner's  weak  points.  If  the  latter 
was  unsuccessful  in  his  quest,  the  American  him- 
self must  take  it  up.  When  that  time  came  he 
would  ride  to  Copar,  and  from  that  point  ascend 
to  the  pass  which  had  such  a  sinister  reputation. 
There  he  would  find  the  claim,  reconnoiter  the 

112 


LOOPHOLES    OF    RETREAT 

ground,  and  gather  sufficient  details  to  enable 
him  to  approach  the  Federal  Government  with 
a  proposal  to  lease  or  purchase. 

oMitad  lacked  the  plotting  mind.  He  wanted 
information  and  got  it,  but  forgot  to  warn 
Seguien  that  no  mention  should  be  made  of  his 
inquiries  regarding  the  skewbald  and  its  rider. 
So  Leon  heard  of  it,  when  he  next  came  down 
the  mountain,  and  promptly  warned  Rourke  that 
he  had  been  traced  to  Copar.  Rourke  was  an- 
noyed, but  hopeful.  He  wrote  back  a  letter  of 
instructions,  then  cast  about  to  discover  the 
name  of  the  man  who  had  followed  the  backward 
track.  Courvois  had  not  left  Santola ;  Smith  was 
still  to  be  seen  riding  every  morning  in  the  Ala- 
meda, and  the  water-seller  was  constantly  under 
observation.  There  remained  Sefior  Mitad,  who 
had  not  appeared  in  the  Cafe  Fleur  de  Lys  for  a 
considerable  time. 

A  visit  to  the  hacienda  assured  him  that  the 
master  was  away.  Who  had  sent  him?  It  was 
hardly  likely  that  the  duty  had  been  self-in- 
spired. Courvois  seemed  the  more  likely  prin- 
cipal; though  Smith  was  more  enterprising.  In 
any  case,  Leon  must  see  to  it  that  the  secret  was 
kept.  At  once  the  thought  had  struck  him  that 
he  should  start  at  the  first  possible  moment  for 
Copar;  then  he  remembered  Jeanne.  She  had 
been  kind  to  him  of  late;  their   intimacy  was 

113 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

growing;  her  eyes  welcomed  him  when  he  en- 
tered the  cafe.  Unconsciously  he  cast  about  for 
an  excuse.  One  was  ready  to  hand.  He  could 
not  leave  Santola  without  being  observed,  pos- 
sibly followed.  Even  if  he  was  able  to  reach 
Copar,  he  must  inevitably  fall  foul  of  Mitad. 
He  had  no  doubt  as  to  the  outcome  of  that  meet- 
ing. If  they  clashed,  one  of  them  would  go  out. 
He  did  not  like  violence,  and  had  no  wish  to  take 
life.  That  being  so,  it  were  best  to  stay  in  the 
town,  and  leave  the  business  to  Leon.  The  let- 
ter to  the  mulatto  was  the  result  of  that  decision. 

His  impatience  increased  as  the  days  passed. 
What  was  happening  over  there  to  the  west? 

Still  his  intimacy  with  Jeanne  increased,  and 
he  was  unremitting  in  his  visits  to  the  cafe.  Cour- 
vois  kept  well  in  the  background  now,  either  be- 
cause that  was  a  part  of  his  new  policy,  or  be- 
cause the  idea  with  which  Smith  had  credited  him 
had  lately  found  a  lodgment  in  his  brain.  The 
girl  had  played  her  part  well — that  was  his  idea 
— and  even  in  the  event  of  the  fortunate  pros- 
pector taking  it  into  his  head  to  work  the  claim 
himself,  Jeanne  might  net  him  in  the  securest 
alliance,  and  provide  her  father  with  a  legitimate 
claim  to  share  in  the  profits  of  the  enterprise. 

The  Frenchman  was  out  one  morning,  when 
Rourke  strolled  into  the  cafe  and  swept  oflf  his 

114 


LOOPHOLES    OF   RETREAT 

sombrero  in  a  parody  of  the  effusive  outward 
politeness  so  common  in  Latin  countries. 

"  Jeanne,  where's  your  father  to-day  ?  My 
heart  just  jumped  wid  joy  when  I  came  across 
the  plaza,  for  bedad,  I  thought  I  saw  him  leaving 
in  search  of  a  stroll." 

Jeanne  accepted  the  implied  compliment  with 
a  faint  blush  and  a  smile.  "  Mon  pere  walks  this 
morning,  Monsieur  Desmon',''  she  said  lightly. 
"  He  has  got  another  attack  of  Royalism  since 
he  has  read  of  the  Republican  plots  out  there  in 
Spain.  Ah,  what  an  obsession  that  is!  For  a 
king  who  has  been  dead  a  thousand  years  per- 
haps." 

Rourke  shook  a  grave  finger  at  her.  "  Your 
bump  of  history's  as  fiat  as  can  well  be.  The 
man's  not  so  out-of-date  as  all  that.  However, 
your  father's  gone  out,  and  he  may  stay  out  for 
me." 

"  Monsieur  might  be  his  deadliest  enemy." 

"  His  deadliest  friend,  you  mean.  It's  my 
father-in-law  he  ought  to  be,  rightly  speaking. 
Now,  don't  try  not  to  blush,  for  the  color  be- 
comes you.  Indeed,  you're  looking  sweet  this 
morning,  and  touch  the  heart  of  me  entirely." 

Jeanne  was  used  to  his  flattery  by  now,  and 
received  this  open  compliment  with  an  arching  of 
the  eyebrows.  "  Is  monsieur  ever  serious?  "  she 
questioned. 

115 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  Is  it  serious  you  say !  Oh,  faith !  Jeanne, 
it's  too  serious  I  am,  and  only  cover  my  aching 
heart  with  a  smihng  face.  I  had  a  serious  mo- 
ment coming  over  here,  indeed." 

"  Truly — and  the  cause?  " 

"  I  thought  your  father  was  coming  back," 
he  said,  sitting  down,  and  lighting  a  cigarette. 
"  But,  joking  apart,  I  have  a  big  problem  I'd  like 
to  be  having  your  advice  on." 

The  girl  looked  at  him,  intent  to  discover  if 
this  were  jest  or  earnest.  ''  I,  to  settle  a  prob- 
lem !  " 

"  You'll  let  me  have  your  advice,  anyway  ?  " 

''  Such  as  it  may  be — ^yes." 

He  still  smiled  up  at  her,  but  spoke  gravely. 
"  Supposing  you  were  a  man,  Jeanne " 

"  I  cannot  imagine  it." 

"  Be  easy !  It's  a  hypothesis,  as  they  call  it. 
Supposing  you  were  a  man,  mightn't  you  love  a 
woman?  " 

The  color  came  quickly  to  her  face,  but  she 
answered  him  quietly  enough,  "  It  seems  pos- 
sible." 

"  Well,  and  if  you  did,  wouldn't  you  guard 
her  against  all  sorts  of  things?  Of  course  you 
would.  Then,  still  supposing,  another  man  comes 
along  and  injures  that  woman,  wouldn't  you — 
what's  the  French  for  '  beat '  ?  " 

''Battrer 

ii6 


LOOPHOLES    OF    RETREAT 

"  Batter !  Well,  that's  a  good  Irish  word, 
too,  but  I  didn't  mean  it  quite  so  strong.  I  mean 
wouldn't  you  try  to  take  your  revenge?  " 

"  If  I  were  a  man  ?  "  she  asked,  knitting  her 
brows. 

"  That's  it." 

"  Monsieur,  I  think  I  should  kill  him,"  she 
said. 

He  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair,  and  drew 
down  his  brows  in  thought.  The  hum  of  voices 
came  to  him  from  the  street,  the  faint  tinkle  of 
a  glass  set  down  by  a  waiter  at  a  distant  table. 
He  kept  his  eyes  away  from  Jeanne. 

"  What  a  bloodthirsty  creature  you  are,"  he 
said,  gravity  still  lingering  in  his  tone.  "  Well, 
we  won't  discuss  killing.  But  you  think  in  those 
circumstances  a  man  would  be  justified  in  going 
pretty  far?  " 

"  I  would  kill  him,  I  think,"  she  repeated. 

She  was  frankly  puzzled  by  this  problem. 
For  a  moment  the  idea  came  to  her  that  this  man 
referred  to  was  her  father.  But,  then,  he  and 
Rourke  were  not  of  an  age,  and  it  was  unlikely 
that  they  could  have  loved  the  same  woman.  She 
had  detected  the  undercurrent  of  dislike  beneath 
the  seeming  smoothness  of  the  men's  relations, 
without  being  able  to  account  for  it.  Still,  grant- 
ing that  this  problem  was  no  hypothetical  one,  it 
was  much  more  likely  that  Rourke  referred  to 

117 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

Mitad.  True,  Mitad  had  done  her  no  harm,  but 
that  might  be  the  Irishman's  way  of  anticipating 
events.  Mitad  was  jealous,  and  jealous  men  are 
like  insane  men,  apt  to  turn  upon  those  they  love 
best.  If  he  meant  Mitad — her  heart  jumped  at 
the  thought.  The  inference  from  that  was  ob- 
vious. 

Did  Rourke  love  her?  A  month  ago  the 
thought  might  have  startled  her ;  now  it  was  not 
distasteful,  or  astonishing.  Her  quick  mind  con- 
jured up  possibilities,  pleasures,  romantic  day 
dreams.  He  was  handsome,  this  Rourke,  mas- 
terful, courteous,  gay,  a  man  to  depend  on.  She 
scanned  his  face  with  new  curiosity,  wondering 
how  it  would  look  when  pleading  and  impas- 
sioned. The  eyes  were  warm,  the  mouth  firm, 
but  tender  and  humorous.  She  wished  she  could 
penetrate  beneath  that  mask  of  careless  amuse- 
ment. For  a  moment  she  was  a  little  embar- 
rassed, feeling  as  if  he  had  spoken  directly  to  her. 
But  his  eyes  met  hers  quite  steadily,  and  he  did 
not  seem  conscious  of  her  embarrassment. 

"  I  didn't  quite  mean  that,"  he  explained.  "  I 
wasn't  really  wanting  to  know  what  one  would 
do  in  a  case  of  the  kind,  but  what  he  might  be 
morally  justified  in  doing — see  ?  " 

"Quelle  idee!"  said  Jeanne,  raising  her 
brows.  "  I  should  not  wait  to  think  of  that — me. 
No,  I  should  follow  my  impulse." 

ii8 


LOOPHOLES    OF    RETREAT 

At  last  he  looked  serious,  and  the  girl  studied 
him  closely,  anxious  to  discover  what  had  caused 
this  sudden  change  of  front.  He  rolled  a  fresh 
cigarette,  lighted  it,  and  smoked  for  a  few  min- 
utes without  speaking.  Jeanne  arranged  some 
things  on  a  shelf  to  bridge  the  period  of  silence, 
and  wondered  what  he  was  going  to  say. 

"  I  might  be  going  away,  Jeanne,  one  of  these 
days,"  he  observed  at  length. 

''But  you  wJl  come  back — no?"  she  said, 
more  eagerly  than  she  knew. 

He  looked  up  at  her,  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  eyes  which  made  her  catch  her 
breath,  and  look  away  quickly.  Was  he  going 
to  speak?  Oh,  but  she  was  not  prepared;  she 
would  have  liked  to  think  it  over. 

"  I  might,  and  I  might  not,"  he  said  doubt- 
fully. "  There's  things  happen,  Jeanne — "  He 
stopped  momentarily,  then  went  on :  "  Will  you 
be  sorry  if  I  have  to  go?  " 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  Desmon' !  "  She  put  out  her 
hand,  but  drew  it  back  confusedly.  "  Monsieur 
has  been  very  kind,  very  amiable.  I  shall  be  sorry 
if  monsieur  has  to  go." 

He  did  not  press  his  advantage,  but  seemed 
to  ponder.  Her  eyes  told  more  than  her  phrase, 
and  he  realized  that  she  knew  it.  "  I'm  thinking 
that  the  best  of  me's  not  good  enough  for  the 

119 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

poorest  of  you,  Jeanne,"  he  said,  in  an  absent 
way.  '*  The  decentest  of  us  make  our  mistakes, 
and  do  devil  a  little  to  repair  them.  There's 
times  when  I  wonder  if  the  best  you  do  pays  for 
the  worst  you've  done,  the  bad  you  may  be  doing. 
But  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  If  I  go,  I'd 
like  to  think  that  some  one — you,  maybe,  or  an- 
other, might  be  saying  to  yourself  now  and  then 
that  Desmond  Rourke  wasn't  such  a  bad  fellow, 
by  the  little  light  he  had." 

Jeanne  understood  him  now,  and  her  heart 
beat  faster.  He  was  asking  a  good  deal,  but  not 
more  than  she  was  prepared  to  grant.  The  neces- 
sity for  concealment  had  passed,  and  she  was 
surprised  to  find  how  little  the  weight  and  in- 
tensity of  her  emotions  embarrassed  her.  The 
advance  of  their  intimacy  had  been  gradual  but 
sure.  She  knew  the  steps  each  had  taken,  and 
that  they  were  taken  consciously.  She  loved  this 
man,  she  understood  him,  and  he  understood  her 
at  last.  A  passionate  joy  filled  her  heart,  and 
beat  strongly  in  her  pulses.  Yet  it  did  not  move 
her  outwardly.  Her  face  was  quite  calm,  even 
indifferent;  pale  and  untroubled. 

"  I  shall  always  believe  in  monsieur,"  she  said 
softly.     "  Yes,  always." 

He  smiled  a  little,  and  that  smile  lighted  up 
his  eyes  in  a  wonderful  way.     ''  Thank  you,"  he 

1 20 


LOOPHOLES    OF    RETREAT 

said,  ''  it's  good  to  hear  that.  As  for  the  other 
thing,  well,  I  ought  to  go,  and  don't  want  to  go, 
and  that's  the  end  of  it." 

"You  talk  of  duty?" 

"  That's  about  the  size  of  it." 

"  But  yes,  and  I  also  ought  to  talk  of  it,  but  I 
cannot.  Is  it  not  so  in  the  contes,  the  romansf 
There  is  always  the  good  married  soldier,  and  the 
so  impossibly  good  wife  who  urges  her  husband 
to  the  war.  Vive  la  Gloirc!  Vive  la  Guerre! 
Ah,  it  is  a  good  cry,  but  it  is  nonsense  all  the 
same.  Would  you  love  a  wife  who  would  send 
you  to  your  duty?  " 

"  Faith !  I  wouldn't,  Jeanne  dear,  but  only 
one  who  would  want  me  more  than  glory.  I 
should  go  all  the  same." 

Her  eyes  shone.  "  But,  of  course.  So  in 
the  present  instance.  Monsieur  Desmon',  I  would 
say  do  not  go ;  stay  here.    I  want  you." 

Rourke  looked  about  him,  then  put  out  his 
hand.  Jeanne's  slipped  into  it,  and  pressed  it  for 
a  moment.  He  dropped  it  again,  and  an  obsti- 
nate look  came  to  his  eyes.  "  Tm  all  for  excuses 
now.  The  soldier's  got  something  to  fight  for,  or 
defend;  I'm  not  sure  that  I  have  anything  to  de- 
fend— yet." 

"  I  hope  not,"  she  said  quite  frankly. 

"  But  if  I  do  go  any  time  ?  " 

She  flushed  at  last,  and  her  eyes   sparkled. 

121 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

*'  Then  I  shall  be  here.  I  shall  wait.  For  a  long 
time  I  shall  wait." 

"Para  sicmpre?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  forever,  if  it  must  be." 

Rourke  began  to  laugh.  The  seriousness 
vanished  from  his  face.  She  laughed,  too,  out  of 
pure  enjoyment.  Some  men  at  a  table  in  the  cafe 
turned  to  look  at  them,  and  winked  to  one  an- 
other. 

"  Yet  a  man  might  have  imagined  that  she 
was  ice,"  one  murmured. 

"  Now  stand  still  for  a  moment  or  two, 
Jeanne,"  Rourke  was  saying.  "  Three-quarter 
face — so."  He  took  a  piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil 
from  his  pocket,  and  began  to  draw  a  woman's 
face.    When  it  was  finished,  he  handed  it  to  her. 

She  smiled.  ''Quelle  caricature! "  she  cried, 
under  her  breath,  "  you  draw  very  well,  but  it 
it  is  not  me.  Perhaps  there  is  a  trace — a  resem- 
blance. The  eyes,  the  mouth — but  I  do  not  look 
so  old  as  that." 

He  seemed  triumphant.  "  It's  only  a  sketch, 
and  not  intended  to  be  true.  I  was  just  wonder- 
ing if  you  would  look  like  that  in  twenty  years' 
time." 

Jeanne  dropped  her  eyes.  "  It  is  possible," 
she  said,  studying  the  drawing  more  attentively. 
*'  You  anticipate  well." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  Santola?  "  he 

122 


LOOPHOLES    OF    RETREAT 

asked,  picking  up  the  sketch,  and  putting  it  in  his 
pocket. 

"  Oh,  a  long  time,  since  I  had  seven  years,  I 
think,"  she  answered,  perplexed  at  this  change 
of  subject. 

"  And  before  that,  do  you  remember  ?  " 

"  Ah,  I  was  so  young ;  but,  sometimes,  I  think 
I  saw  black  people — yes,  very  black.  It  frightens 
me  even  now,  though  I  do  not  know  why.  It 
may  be  only  a  dream." 

His  eyes  fixed  her.  "  Probably — and  what  of 
Madame  Courvois,  your  mother?  You  remem- 
ber her?" 

Jeanne  knitted  her  brows.  "  No,  I  think  not, 
but  yes — something.  It  passes.  Monsieur  Des- 
mon'.  She  must  have  died  when  I  was  very 
young." 

Rourke  nodded.  He  was  immensely  inter- 
ested in  something,  and  puzzled,  too.  It  was  as 
if  he  tried  to  reconcile  conflicting  evidence  to  fit 
the  pieces  in  some  mental  patchwork.  Then  he 
put  the  question  aside,  and  left  it  for  later  consid- 
eration. His  glance  surveyed  the  cafe.  "  Faith, 
Jeanne,  those  fellows  over  there  are  in  the  way." 

She  smiled.  "  I  almost  agree  with  monsieur," 
she  said  softly. 

She  half  expected  that  he  would  wish  to  talk 
over  their  affair,  perhaps  to  put  it  on  a  firm  basis. 
After  all,  love  involved  marriage,  and  in  the  mat- 
9  123 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

rimonial  equation  Marriage  =  Love  -|-  Means. 
Jeanne  was  not  mercenary ;  but  her  common  sense 
told  her  that  two  normal  beings  cannot  live  upon 
passion  alone.  Courvois  would  give  her  a  dot, 
but  there  were  other  things  to  be  settled.  Had 
Rourke  a  home  to  which  he  could  take  her  at  a 
future  date?    What  were  they  to  live  upon? 

Rourke  did  not  enlighten  her.  He  seemed 
content  to  know  that  she  loved  him,  or,  perhaps, 
he  left  the  matter  open  because  means  were  not 
yet  forthcoming.  The  thought  only  troubled 
Jeanne  for  a  passing  moment,  but  was  forced  out 
of  her  mind  by  the  thought  of  her  present  happi- 
ness. That  was  undoubted.  She  belonged  to 
Rourke  now,  and  he  belonged  to  her ;  their  inter- 
ests had  been  fused,  their  thoughts  had  a  common 
center.  She  felt  deeply  stirred,  and  the  impulses, 
the  instincts  so  long  repressed,  poured  forth  in 
full  flood,  stronger  possibly  from  the  very  fact  of 
their  former  repression. 

Sefior  Mitad,  suitor  and  jealous  man,  im- 
pinged upon  her  thoughts.  He  would  not  take 
this  lightly;  behind  his  threats  there  was  an 
active  reality  which  might  prove  dangerous  to 
the  man  she  loved.  In  Santola  you  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  shoot,  unless  you  feel  that  you  may  be 
worsted  in  the  encounter.  In  that  case,  you  pro- 
ceed cautiously.  If  you  cannot  attack  your 
enemy  safely  in  the  open,  well — there  are  trees, 

124 


LOOPHOLES    OF    RETREAT 

houses.  In  passing,  the  fellow  impudently  pre- 
sents his  back,  and  you  very  properly  resent  the 
insult.  The  result  is  the  same.  Jeanne  thought 
of  this,  and  shivered. 

"  Monsieur  Desmon',''  she  said  softly,  "  you 
will  be  careful  for  my  sake.  There  is  that 
Mitad." 

He  smiled  wisely.  "  I  don't  want  to  kill 
Mitad,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "  I  won't  do  it  if  I 
can  help  it.  If  he's  wise,  he'll  keep  away  from 
me.  But  he's  away  from  his  hacienda  just  at 
present." 

"Away?     Where  has  he  gone?" 

"  Your  father  may  have  sent  him  on  an  er- 
rand." 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  He  has  not  been  here  for 
some  time." 

Rourke  rose  leisurely.  "  Then  I'm  thinking 
it's  Smith,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  **  Yes,  George 
H.  Smith." 


CHAPTER   IX 

SMITH    DECIDES 

IT  was  essential  to  the  success  of  the  plan 
concerted  by  Smith,  and  the  haciendero, 
Jose  Mitad,  that  neither  should  appear  to 
have  any  connection  with  the  other.  Mitad  ob- 
served this  precaution  when,  on  returning  to 
Santola,  he  visited  Smith's  house  under  cover  of 
darkness. 

He  found  the  speculator  sitting  in  a  rocker, 
smoking  a  green  cigar,  and  scanning  the  columns 
of  the  New  York  World.  A  decanter  of  brandy 
stood  beside  him  on  a  little  table,  flanked  by  two 
glasses,  and  a  tumbler  of  toast  water.  He 
swung  gently  backward  and  forward,  one  foot 
pushing  at  the  carpet,  the  other  resting  on  his 
knee. 

"  Sefior,''  said  Mitad,  with  a  gesture  which 
would  have  been  magnificent  if  it  had  not  been 
a  trifle  theatrical,  "  seiior,  I  return." 

Smith  looked  at  him  over  the  top  of  the  paper. 
"  Well,  I  guess  you  must  have,"  he  said  dryly. 

Mitad  placed  his  hat  on  the  table,  and  folded 
126 


I 


SMITH    DECIDES 

his  arms.  "  I  went  out  with  the  energy  of  a  man 
who  sees  before  him  unHmited  wealth,  I  prose- 
cuted my  inquiries  with  great  tact  and  discretion, 
but,  alas!  I  return  without  having  effected  my 
purpose." 

Smith  grinned.  "  What's  the  matter  with 
you,  anyway?  "  he  asked  very  slowly.  "  Whose 
funeral  do  you  think  this  is?  You  sit  down, 
sonny,  and  tell  your  uncle  what  you've  done.  It's 
a  pity  to  waste  that  energy  of  yours  in  playing 
the  goat.  Your  mouth's  dry,  that's  what !  Take 
something  to  suit  your  complaint." 

Mitad  poured  some  brandy  into  a  glass, 
gulped  it  down,  and  wiped  his  mustache.  Then 
he  sat  down,  looking  rather  subdued. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  not  necessary  to  repeat  what 
I  told  you  in  my  letters  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  Go  ahead  with  the  rest  of  the 
yarn." 

"  Well,  sefior,  when  I  had  discovered  the 
three  passes,  I  decided  to  make  a  thorough 
search," 

Smith  rocked  quickly.  "  A  thorough  search 
of  the  two  passes,"  he  corrected. 

''  As  you  say — of  the  two  passes,  for  the 
other  cannot  be  the  home  of  man  or  beast " 

"  Push  ahead,  and  we'll  take  up  that  point 
afterwards." 

''  But,  senor " 

127 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  Oh !     Go  on,  you  make  me  feel  tired." 

"  There  is  this  phantom  dog " 

Smith  sat  up,  and  dropped  his  paper.  "  Quit ! 
That's  all  out  of  your  letters.  I  don't  want  to 
hear  it." 

Mitad  came  of  a  race  which  is  emotional 
rather  than  practical,  and  prefers  rhetoric  and 
florid  phrasing  to  mere  statements  of  fact. 
Smith  irritated  him,  by  the  familiarity  of  his 
talk,  and  its  implied  superiority.  But  the  bond 
between  them  prevented  him  from  expressing  re- 
sentment. He  flushed  at  being  so  summarily 
treated,  but  went  on  as  quietly  as  he  could. 

"  As  the  sefior  wishes,  we  will  not  discuss 
that.  However,  there  were  the  two  passes  be- 
fore me,  and  I  lost  no  time  in  setting  to  work. 
I  searched  both  thoroughly  for  traces  of  this 
claim,  first  riding  along  the  track,  then  returning 
slowly  and  carefully  examining  the  land  to  either 
side.  I  found  nothing.  There  was  no  trace  of 
a  claim  staked  out,  nor  a  house  or  hut  in  which 
the  man  Rourke  could  live.  Further,  many  mule 
trains  frequent  these  passes,  and  it  was  the  im- 
pression of  the  muleteers  that  no  human  being 
could  live  there  without  being  observed." 

"  That's  right.  You  questioned  the  mule- 
teers?" 

''  I  did,  sefior,  and  they  all  agreed  that  the 
man  did  not  live  there." 

128 


SMITH    DECIDES 

"  Now,  you're  talking  sense,"  said  Smith, 
sipping  toast  water,  and  selecting  another  cigar. 
''  I  thought  you  would  sure  come  to  that  point  in 
time.  George  H.  Smith  is  no  slouch.  He  doesn't 
waste  his  precious  time  fooling  round  empty 
nests.  No,  sir,  he  hit  that  point  some  time  back, 
and  froze  on  to  it." 

Mitad  had  a  fair  working  knowledge  of  Eng- 
lish, having  lived  for  some  time  in  Buenos  Ayres, 
where  he  had  come  in  contact  with  men  of  many 
nations.  He  was  puzzled  by  Smith's  slang,  but 
smiled  patiently,  as  he  returned:  "  You  speak  of 
the  vacancy  of  those  two  passes,  sefior.  Well, 
it  is  so.  My  time  has  been  wasted  in  the  search 
for  this  claim — if  indeed  there  is  a  claim." 

"  Don't  say  wasted !  "  said  Smith  quizzical- 
ly. "  A  smart  man  like  you  doesn't  waste  his 
time.  Why,  sir,  as  it  seems  to  me,  you've  got 
the  very  information  I  wanted." 

Mitad  sat  up,  eying  him  queerly.  The  Amer- 
ican motioned  him  to  fill  his  glass. 

"  The  very  information  ?  Did  you  think, 
then,  that  the  man  could  not  have  lived  on  either 
of  the  passes?  " 

"  I  knew  it.  See  here,  sonny,  just  change  the 
gear  of  that  brain-box  of  yours ;  put  it  on  fourth 
speed,  and  listen  to  me.  This  fellow  Rourke  is 
no  fool.  He  wouldn't  set  up  on  a  pass  where  a 
lot    of    giddy    muleteers    would    be    mouching 

129 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

around.  How  long  d'ye  think  he  could  keep  the 
thing  secret  that  way?  No,  sir,  Rourke  has  set 
up  on  the  one  place  where  this  pious  nation 
wouldn't  put  a  foot,  because  of  some  poppycock 
relating  to  a  dog.     See !  " 

Mitad's  face  showed  some  slight  resentment. 
'*  I  am  not  an  ignorant  peasant,  seiior,  and  I  am 
assured  that  the  story  is  true.  All  you  Ameri- 
canos do  not  believe  in  spirits,  and  yet  worship 
spirits.  That  to  me  is  foolish.  If  spirits  go  out 
of  bodies,  why  may  they  not  go  out  upon  the 
mountains?  This  dog  has  been  seen,  sefior,  it 
has  been  heard  to  howl  along  the  mountains " 


"  In  the  daytime  ?  " 

"  Donde  no,''  Mitad  objected.  "  At  night  it 
prowls." 

"  Then  they'd  have  pretty  considerable  diffi- 
culty in  seeing  it.  Well,  let's  stow  this  phantom 
where  he  belongs.  I  reckon  you  can  bring  a  pint 
of  holy  water  with  you,  so's  to  exorcise  it,  eh  ?  " 

''  Do  you  suggest  that  I  should  cross  this 
pass  ?  "  Mitad  crossed  himself.  "  I  would  not 
cross  it  for  a  sack  of  gold.  It  is  ill  work  play- 
ing with  the  devil." 

Smith  yawned,  and  cut  the  end  of  the  cigar, 
which  he  had  been  holding  between  his  fingers. 
He  rocked  more  rapidly,  which  was  his  habit 
when  irritated  or  excited.  Mitad  put  him  out  of 
all  patience,  with  his  superstitious  fears.    It  cost 

130 


SMITH    DECIDES 

him  an  effort  to  refrain  from  telling  the  mestizo 
what  he  thought  of  his  intelligence.  But  he  was 
used  to  dealing  with  blunt  tools,  and  never  threw 
them  aside  until  he  had  assured  himself  that  they 
were  absolutely  useless  for  his  purpose.  He 
knew,  too,  that  the  discarded  tool  may  lie  in  wait 
for  the  unwary  foot.  He  humored  Mitad  by  as- 
suming an  expression  of  gravity. 

"  Well,  I  don't  say  such  things  aren't  possi- 
ble," he  said  smoothly.  "  All  I  do  say  is  that  I 
don't  believe  in  'em.  If  you  think  this  dog  does 
walk  the  airth  you've  no  call  to  tread  on  his  tail. 
I  reckon  this'd  better  be  my  funeral.  You  say 
this  is  one  of  the  three  passes  crossing  the  moun- 
tains over  to  Copar,  and  that  it's  called  ^  The 
Pass  of  the  Dog.'     Is  that  right?" 

"  Si,  senor,  it  is  correct." 

**  So  if  I  went  from  here  to  Copar,  and  struck 
the  trail  leading  to  this  pass,  I  might  get  there 
in  eight  or  nine  days." 

"  Less.  It  would  take  six  days  with  a  good 
horse." 

"  Well,  that's  fixed  up.  I  am  sure  Rourke's 
claim  is  located  way  up  on  this  pass,  and  hasn't 
been  discovered  by  any  of  the  natives  owing  to 
this  yer  dog.  Now,  I'm  not  readily  skeered  by 
dogs,  whether  they're  furred,  feathered,  or  phan- 
tom. I  simply  don't  allow  that  dogs  count  a  cent. 
That  being  so,  I'll  just  tote  myself  to  Copar,  stay 

131 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

overnight  there,  and  start  in  the  next  morning 
exploring  this  kennel  you  talk  of.  You  bet  I 
shan't  see  the  animal  for  dust,  when  my  Smith 
&  Wesson  gets  going.  I  always  reckoned  that 
bullets  was  fine  medicine  for  canines." 

Mitad  looked  blank  amazement.  "  You  will 
face  this  monster!  You  will  go  upon  the  pass, 
sefior  ?  Ah,  you  will  never  return.  I  beg  of  you 
to  consider  the  danger." 

Smith  lit  his  cigar  and  sipped  toast  and  water 
between  puffs.  He  was  telling  himself  that,  of  all 
the  ignorant  and  unpractical  idiots  in  this  un- 
practical place,  Mitad  was  the  worst.  The  fellow 
did  not  lack  courage,  and  might  have  helped  his 
case  by  proving  that  the  mountains  were  infested 
by  desperadoes;  but  to  hear  a  man,  who  would 
take  his  part  in  a  fight,  talking  of,  or  refusing  to 
face,  an  imaginary  dog,  was  too  ridiculous. 

"  I  am  indeed  that  particular  brand  of  hero," 
he  said  half  mockingly.  "  I  alone  will  encounter 
this  formidable,  fire-breathing,  furry  son-of-a- 
gun,  and  bring  home  his  pelt  for  a  hearth-rug. 
That's  me,  every  time.  I'm  the  kind  of  foo!  who 
rushes  in  where  you  sooty  young  angels  fear  to 
tread." 

"  You  are  unwise,"  said  Mitad  stifiiy. 

"  Always  was,  and  made  money  out  of  it. 
Well,  that  lets  you  out  in  any  case,  and  all  you've 
got  to  do  is  to  stay  home,  and  keep  your  mouth 

132 


SMITH    DECIDES 

shut.  Rourke  must  not  get  wind  of  it,  whatever 
happens.  If  he  should  happen  to  meet  you,  tell 
him  I've  gone  off  for  a  holiday.  What  I  want 
you  to  do  this  moment  is  to  make  me  a  rough  plan 
showing  where  this  place  lies  from  Copar,  so's  I 
needn't  make  talk  inquiring  of  the  Seiior  Seguien, 
of  the  pulperia  where  you  put  up.  Here's  a 
pencil.     Just  show  it  roughly." 

Mitad  was  not  a  skilled  draughtsman,  but  he 
took  the  pencil,  opened  a  note-book  Smith  handed 
to  him,  and  after  some  deliberation,  was  able  to 
indicate  generally  the  position  of  the  mountains, 
and  the  passes  traversing  them.  It  had  just  oc- 
curred to  him  that  Rourke  was  also  a  foreigner, 
and  had  perhaps  as  little  regard  for  apparitions 
as  the  American.  In  that  event,  it  was  quite 
possible  that  he  might  have  taken  up  his  residence 
within  the  confines  of  the  haunted  pass.  He 
could  see  the  argument  advanced  by  Smith,  and 
could  appreciate  its  logic,  though  he  did  not  pro- 
fess himself  willing  to  brave  a  phantom. 

The  speculator's  proposal  jumped  with  his 
own  inclinations,  and  might  have  a  definite  result. 
So  long  as  he  was  not  asked  to  accompany  the 
explorer,  he  was  quite  willing  to  profit  by  the 
exploration.  While  evading  the  responsibility  he 
would  share  in  the  venture.  That  was  certain; 
since  Smith  had  explained  his  plan  of  campaign, 
and  could  not  discard  his  fellow-conspirator  with 

133 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

impunity.  His  confidence  was  in  the  nature  of  a 
hostage  given  to  fortune.  The  bond  of  mutual 
interest  alone  kept  them  together,  for  Mitad's 
contempt  for  the  pushing  and  practical  American 
was  only  equalled  by  Smith's  contempt  for  one 
whom  he  considered  a  dreamy  and  inconsequent 
fool.  He  handed  over  the  note-book,  smiling 
deprecatingly. 

"  It  is  not  good,  but  it  may  serve.  Here  to 
the  right  the  trail  begins,  and  winds  up  through 
very  rugged  and  rocky  ground  over  the  lower 
foothills  until  it  comes  to  the  base  of  two  larger 
mountains.  Then  it  turns  to  the  left,  and  ascends 
between,  I  think,  though  I  did  not  approach  near 
enough  to  be  certain.  I  should  say  that  from 
Copar  to  the  divide  must  be  at  least  two  days' 
travel." 

"So  much  as  that?"  Smith  asked,  sticking 
out  his  legs,  and  contemplating  the  toes  of  his 
slippers  absent-mindedly. 

"  But  yes,  quite.  So  if  you  wish  to  go  there, 
you  must  provide  yourself  with  food  and  water. 
Naturally,  I  was  unable  to  ascertain  if  there  were 
any  springs  up  there." 

Smith  agreed.  "What  about  getting  there? 
Would  I  need  a  horse  ?  " 

"  It  might  not  keep  its  feet.  A  mule  would  be 
safer." 

"  That's  so,  if  the  place  is  considerable  rocky 

134 


I 


SMITH    DECIDES 

It  strikes  me  it  would  be  best  to  get  a  cheap 
mule,  ride  him  half  way  up,  and  turn  him  loose. 
I  could  get  the  rest  of  the  way  afoot,  and  keep 
better  out  of  sight  if  that  galoot  happened  to  get 
on  my  track.  Or  I  might  take  a  mule  from  here, 
beside  my  horse,  and  quarter  the  horse  some- 
where near  Copar.  But  that  needn't  worry  you 
any.  I  can  make  my  own  arrangements  slick 
enough.  One  thing  I'm  plumb  sure  of,  and  that 
is  the  claim.  I'll  find  it  in  that  pass,  or  I'm  a 
Dago — I  mean  a  Dutchman." 

Mitad  was  not  so  certain  of  this  point,  but 
fervently  hoped  that  it  might  be  so.  At  all 
events,  Smith's  attitude  was  calculated  to  inspire 
him  with  new  confidence  in  the  ultimate  success 
of  their  venture.  He  looked  pleased,  and  con- 
gratulated his  partner  in  flowing  phrases  which 
were  at  least  half  sincere. 

"  We  lack  in  this  thing  as  a  nation,"  he  ended, 
generously.  "  The  planning  head  is  not  to  us. 
We  can  lead  men,  act,  carry  out,  but  you  Ameri- 
cans can  organize  and  arrange.  My  greatest 
compliments  to  you,  seiior," 

Smith  looked  longingly  at  his  paper.  The 
man  talked  for  talk's  sake,  a  thing  which  bored 
him  excessively,  unless  such  waste  of  time  served 
some  secret  purpose.  To  one  of  his  compatriots 
he  would  have  said,  "Git,  and  come  again!" 
but,  in  Santola,  business  is  not  transacted  so  dis- 

135 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

courteously.  Every  transaction  must  be  wrapped 
up  in  words,  sweet  phrases,  honeyed  compli- 
ments. 

"  Thank  you,  Senor  Mitad,"  he  said.  "  I  ap- 
preciate your  compliment,  though  not  deserving 
it.  It  is  in  reality  your  help  which  has  been  in- 
valuable. Your  suggestion  that  I  myself  should 
search  this  pass  is  particularly  well-timed." 

''  Oh,  it  is  nothing,"  said  Mitad,  smiling, 
quite  willing  to  believe  that  he  was  the  inspirer 
of  the  idea.  "  Still,  if  you  wish  it,  seiior,  I  my- 
self will  go." 

"  It  is  not  necessary.  I  need  a  holiday,  and 
shall  be  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  take  one.  A 
thousand  thanks,  nevertheless." 

Smith  spoke  in  Spanish  now,  the  language  of 
elaborate  nothings,  the  tongue  in  which  one  can 
say  less  in  more  words  than  in  any  other. 

"  Then  that's  fixed  up,"  he  added,  relapsing 
into  his  own  vernacular.  ''  You  can  leave  the 
thing  alone  for  a  bit,  and  see  to  the  work  at  your 
hacienda.  It's  about  time  I  toddled  off  to  roost, 
anyway." 

"  Good,"  said  Mitad,  rising  from  his  chair, 
and  taking  up  his  hat.  ''  I  am  satisfied.  Buenas 
noches,  sefior ;  may  your  sleep  be  guarded  by  all 
the  saints  and  angels  of  heaven !  " 

"  It  will,  sonny,  it  will."  Smith  shook  hands 
perfunctorily,  and  stifled  a  yawn.     "  And  I  shall 

136 


SMITH    DECIDES 

be  off  first  thing  in  the  morning.  You  needn't  do 
anything  till  you  hear  from  me." 

Mitad  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out.  Coming 
to  the  street,  he  peered  into  the  darkness  up  and 
down,  saw  no  one  on  the  watch,  and  walked 
quickly  toward  the  plaza.  He  had  at  first  in- 
tended to  ride  home,  but  decided  to  call  in  at 
the  Cafe  Fleur  de  Lys,  have  a  drink,  and  see 
Jeanne.  Jealousy  still  stirred  in  him,  though 
business  forbade  any  outward  ebullition.  He  had 
heard  of  Rourke's  frequent  visits  to  the  cafe,  but 
unlimited  wealth  was  the  prelude  to  unlimited 
love,  and  he  was  not  yet  sure  that  his  own  physi- 
cal attractions  could  be  laid  aside  as  an  unessen- 
tial factor  in  the  contest.  He  did  not  admire  this 
gringo,  and  hardly  imagined  that  the  fellow  could 
impose  upon  Jeanne. 

He  halted  presently  in  the  splash  of  light 
thrown  upon  the  pavement  from  the  pendant 
electrolier  above  the  cafe  entrance,  and  tugged 
irritably  at  his  mustache.  Suppose  the  Irishman 
were  with  Jeanne,  what  should  be  his  course? 
He  could  not  shoulder  his  rival  away,  without 
provoking  an  assault,  and  the  time  was  not  ripe 
for  that.  He  must  restrain  himself,  consort  with 
old  Courvois,  if  he  could  not  isolate  Jeanne.  At 
least,  he  and  Smith  would  laugh  last.  When  the 
claim  was  theirs,  and  in  full  working  order, 
Rourke  would  feel  that  he  had  paid  dearly  for  his 

137. 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

pleasure.  With  this  thought  jogging  his  mind 
triumphantly,  he  turned  into  the  door  of  the  cafe, 
and  threaded  his  way  between  the  tables,  to  where 
Jeanne  stood. 

Naturally,  she  was  talking  to  Rourke.  The 
man  lived  in  the  place  almost.  It  was  very  irri- 
tating. Jeanne  was  smiling,  too,  smiling  and 
talking  interestedly.  She  looked  different  to 
Mitad's  eyes.  The  change  in  her  was  so  patent, 
that  he  paused  for  a  moment,  and  stood  in  the 
shelter  of  a  pillar  to  study  her.  Formerly,  im- 
passivity had  been  the  characteristic  of  her  face; 
a  lack  of  animation,  of  expression.  She  had  ap- 
peared to  bear  life  rather  than  live  it,  as  if  she 
had  passed  through  successive  preceding  exist- 
ences, and  found  nothing  to  wonder  at,  or  ad- 
mire, in  this.  She  had  smiled  occasionally  even 
then,  but  woodenly,  with  a  mere  mechanical  draw- 
ing back  of  the  lips  to  express  complaisant  amuse- 
ment expected  by  paying  customers.  It  had  been 
impossible  to  believe  that  she  was  ever  amused 
or  stirred  by  the  humor  or  the  pathos  of  life. 

What  had  happened  to  her?  Mitad  v/as  at 
sea  amid  psychological  possibilities,  unable  to 
give  a  name  to  the  new  factors  which  had  en- 
tered into  the  case;  unwilling  to  attribute  the 
change  to  a  definite  if  unpleasant  cause.  She 
looked  at  Rourke,  as  she  had  never  looked  at  him. 
Her  face  was  lighted  up  from  within:  the  shad- 

138 


SMITH    DECIDES 

ows  of  her  moods  flitted  across  her  face,  were 
mirrored  in  her  eyes,  and  expressed  themselves 
in  graphic  shape  upon  her  Hps.  Obviously,  she 
gave  attention  to  what  her  companion  was  say- 
ing, hanging  upon  his  words  with  what  seemed 
to  Mitad  almost  painful  intentness.  Her  laugh 
even  was  disconcerting,  newly  full  of  gayety  and 
abandon. 

Courvois  came  out  from  his  office,  and  shot  a 
sharp  glance  at  her.  Then  his  gaze  wandered 
over  the  cafe,  and  fell  upon  the  man  who  stood, 
scowling,  under  the  pillar.  His  lips  pictured  a 
forcible  expression,  were  drawn  tight  over  his 
teeth.  He  made  a  movement  forward,  but 
stopped,  and  after  a  moment's  thought,  returned 
silently  to  his  office.  Mitad  did  not  see  him,  so 
intent  was  he  in  his  study  of  the  couple  opposite. 

Jeanne  looked  up  and  observed  her  former 
lover.  She  drew  Rourke's  attention  to  him,  and 
the  Irishman  wheeled  slowly. 

"  Oh,  I  am  afraid.  Monsieur  Desmon' !  "  she 
said,  under  her  breath. 

Rourke  smiled  quietly.  "  Is  it  his  mustache 
frightens  you?"  he  said  softly.  "Sure,  it's 
savage  looking  enough." 

Mitad  moved  toward  them,  his  scowl  fading. 
He  would  not  quarrel  with  this  rival  just  yet. 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  Rourke  observed,  bending 
nearer  to  Jeanne,  '*  this  is  only  the  jackal — the 
10  139 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

lion's  nearer  home.  I'll  bet  you  twenty  francs  to 
a  stirrup-iron  that  George  H.  Smith  leaves  town 
to-morrow." 

"  Good  evening,  mademoiselle."  Mitad  gave 
the  greeting  in  an  amiable  tone.  "  It  is  so  long 
since  I  have  seen  you.  Naturally,  I  have  been 
unhappy.  Does  not  darkness  fall  when  the  sun 
has  been  withdrawn  from  the  sky?  " 

"  Unless  there's  a  moon,  sefior,"  said  Rourke, 
laughing. 

"  Ah,  you  are  the  Sehor  Rourke.  I  have  been 
wishing  to  meet  you  for  a  long  time.  It  is  the 
greatest  pleasure  in  the  world  to  me,  I  assure  the 
sefior." 

"  Your  pleasure  is  to  mine  as  the  lake  to  a 
sea,"  Rourke  replied  in  fluent  Spanish,  and  bowed 
slightly.  "  Is  there  anyone  within  ten  leagues  of 
Santola  who  does  not  know  the  brave  and  accom- 
plished haciendero,  Sefior  Mitad?  Assuredly  no 
one.  The  honor  of  the  sefior's  acquaintance  per- 
fectly completes  my  happiness." 

*'  Sefior,  you  speak  too  kindly.  Praise  from 
your  honor's  mouth  would  make  the  saints  glad. 
If  there  is  any  way  in  which  I  can  serve  you,  it  is 
done.  My  establishment  is  at  your  disposition. 
Say  the  word,  and  it  is  yours." 

Rourke  bowed  again,  still  keeping  his  smile. 
"  A  thousand  thanks,  but  I  could  not  accept  of  it. 
Now,  I  beg  the  sefior's  permission  to  withdraw, 

140 


SMITH    DECIDES 

knowing  that  his  amiabihty  will  find  pardon  for 
my  detestable  rudeness.  Good  night,  senor,  and 
every  good  fortune." 

Mitad  bowed  ceremoniously,  showing  his  ex- 
cellent teeth  in  a  smile.  "  To  you,  senor,  good 
night.    The  angels  guard  you." 

Rourke  turned  away,  after  bowing  to  Jeanne, 
walked  the  length  of  the  cafe,  and  disappeared. 
Mitad  tugged  at  his  mustache,  and  shot  a  moody 
glance  at  his  retiring  figure. 

"  Curse  the  fellow !  "  he  said  sulkily.  "  What 
he  is  doing  here  no  one  can  tell." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Jeanne  gravely,  "  you 
are  execrably  rude." 


CHAPTER    X 

THE    SHADOW 

MITH  left  Santola  before  sunrise  on  the 
following  morning,  and  was  far  out  across 
the  bare  plain,  when  the  first  light  streamed 
across  the  backward  horizon,  to  lie  in  a  wide 
swathe  of  orange  upon  the  sea  of  grass. 

He  had  abandoned  the  idea  of  procuring  a 
mule  in  the  town,  and  rode  a  mouse-colored  mare 
which  he  had  imported  some  twelve  months  be- 
fore; an  animal  which  preferred  a  hand  gallop 
to  any  other  pace,  and  could  keep  it  up  most  of 
the  day,  without  being  unduly  distressed.  He  was 
properly  provisioned  for  a  journey,  with  saddle- 
bags, and  a  water-skin ;  and  carried  a  large  cali- 
ber Smith  &  Wesson  in  his  jacket  pocket,  to 
"  keep  out  the  cold,"  as  he  humorously  assured 
himself. 

That  night  he  put  up  with  a  haciendcro  some 
fifty  miles  out  of  Santola,  and,  continuing  his 
way  in  the  early  dawn,  reached  another  distant 
village  before  the  night  again  fell.  As  he  ap- 
proached   daily   nearer    Copar    he   heard    faint 

142 


THE    SHADOW 

echoes  of  Mitad's  story  with  regard  to  the  pass. 
They  talked  of  it  in  the  haciendas,  as  entertain- 
ment for  the  stranger.  To  them  it  was  quite 
true  and  indubitable,  though  none  of  them  had 
seen  the  locale  of  this  superstition.  But  each  had 
met  some  one  who  had  heard  the  howhng  of  the 
dog  upon  the  pass,  or  had  friends  who  knew  some 
one  who  had  seen  it.  From  the  prosperous  and 
shrewd  owner  of  an  estancia  to  the  meanest  peon, 
all  gave  ready  acceptance  to  the  story.  Smith 
was  contemptuous  at  first,  and  disposed  to  irri- 
tation when  he  heard  some  one  tell  him  of  it  for 
the  twentieth  time.  He  did  not  believe  in  spirits, 
or  apparitions,  nor  in  psychic  manifestations. 

Later,  he  became  vaguely  disturbed.  Surely 
all  these  people  would  not  invent  this  tale  to 
frighten  strangers  ?  The  pass,  too,  was  the  short- 
est way  across  the  mountains.  Yet  no  muleteer 
would  cross  it,  going  round  by  a  much  longer 
way  in  order  to  avoid  it.  There  must  be  some 
basis  for  this  talk,  some  atom  of  reality  beneath 
the  mass  of  conjecture  and  idle  gossip.  Smith's 
feeling  was  something  just  short  of  uneasiness, 
a  tendency  to  dwell  on  the  idea,  a  desire  to  argue 
it  out  with  himself,  and  finally  disprove  it.  As 
the  feeling  gained  ground,  he  became  more  eager 
to  go  on,  thinking,  with  some  truth,  that  the  mo- 
ment you  turn  your  shoulder  to  your  enemies, 
the  retreat  has  begun.    At  this  time  the  thought 

H3 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

of  the  pistol  in  his  pocket  began  to  be  an  extra 
comfort  to  him. 

On  the  fifth  day  he  was  about  thirty  miles 
north  of  Copar,  having  made  up  his  mind  to 
skirt  that  place,  and  sleep  in  any  available  shelter 
that  offered  itself.  The  sun  sank  behind  the 
mountains  without  disclosing  the  proximity  of  a 
farmhouse,  and  he  was  compelled  to  blunder  on 
in  the  darkness,  in  a  rather  anxious  frame  of 
mind,  until  after  midnight.  Then,  at  last,  he 
stumbled  across  a  vaquero's  watch  hut,  and  man- 
aged to  make  up  a  bed  with  his  poncho  and  some 
rough  grass. 

His  final  stop  before  he  ventured  on  the  moun- 
tain trail  was  at  a  tiny  huddle  of  ramshackle 
houses,  pretentiously  known  as  Simon  del  Pilar, 
which  lay  in  a  hollow  of  the  plain  under  the  loom 
of  the  foothills.  Here  he  found  shelter  with  a 
muleteer,  and  heard  once  more  the  story  of  the 
dog.  But  this  time  the  story  was  more  practical. 
The  muleteer  himself  had  seen  it,  on  a  dark 
night,  and  had  felt  it  brush  against  him  in  pass- 
ing. Smith  assured  him  that  he  must  have  en- 
countered a  leon,  but  the  man  negatived  the  sug- 
gestion with  derisive  laughter.  He  had  seen 
leones,  even  shot  them,  but  this  beast  was  quite 
different.  It  was  monstrous ;  long,  lean,  but 
silent  of  foot :  its  howl  was  like  the  laughter  of 
fiends.    He  crossed  himself  as  he  spoke,  and  ex- 

144 


THE    SHADOW 

hibited  real  uneasiness  during  his  own  recital  of 
what  had  befallen  him.  More,  two  days  after 
his  encounter,  his  second  child  had  sickened  and 
died  of  some  unknown  disease.  He  himself  was 
surprised  to  have  escaped  alive. 

Smith  laughed  the  idea  to  scorn,  but  dreamed 
of  it  that  night,  and  woke  with  a  headache; 
which  did  not  conduce  to  amiability,  when  cou- 
pled with  the  fact  that  he  was  unable  to  procure 
a  mule  from  his  host.  The  latter  had  a  full  team, 
no  more,  owing  to  an  accident  which  had  befallen 
his  spare  mule  on  the  last  journey  across  the 
mountains.  He  regretted  the  fact  that  he  was 
unable  to  assist  the  senor. 

Smith  was  annoyed,  but  undaunted.  If  he 
could  not  ride  to  the  pass,  he  would  go  on  foot, 
and  promptly  improvised  a  knapsack  to  sling 
over  his  shoulders.  The  muleteer  shook  his  head 
over  the  affair.  He  counseled  his  guest  to  put 
the  idea  out  of  his  mind,  remarking  gravely  that 
a  brave  man  was  always  the  most  cautious. 
Finding  his  objections  futile,  he  shrugged,  and 
begged  the  senor  to  accept  a  little  charm  which 
might  help  him  to  combat  the  powers  of  evil. 

Smith  took  it,  with  a  polite  smile,  and  bade 
farewell  to  his  host  and  family,  leaving  a  little 
present  for  the  woman,  and  a  gold  coin  for  the 
arriero.  He  was  on  the  move  with  the  first  gray 
light  of  day,  and  striking  due  westward,  set  his 

H5 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

face  toward  the  ascent.  The  sun  threw  a  wide 
arc  of  Hght  upon  the  serrated  horizon,  above  the 
highest  snow-capped  peaks  of  the  distant  range, 
until  every  pinnacle  shone  like  molten  silver ;  the 
mists  fled  across  the  plain  like  wraiths  in  disor- 
derly array  with  the  first  cockcrow.  The  lonely 
spaces  of  the  foothills  were  monstrously  silent, 
without  cr}^  of  beast  or  bird,  seeming  even  to 
the  practical  American  a  fitting  setting  for  that 
persistent  superstition  which  had  lately  begun  to 
obsess  his  thoughts.  To  dissipate  this  unpleas- 
ant feeling,  he  lighted  a  cigar,  and  hummed  a 
rag-time  melody  with  monotonous  iteration.  As 
a  feeble  light  makes  darkness  visible,  this  lilt 
seemed  to  accentuate  the  silence,  to  be  repulsed, 
threadlike,  by  the  defiant  dumbness  of  the  moun- 
tains. He  stopped  humming  presently,  and  went 
on  upward. 

The  sun  had  swung  high,  and  the  heat  of  the 
day  increased;  the  garish  colors  of  the  sunrise 
had  given  place  to  a  uniform,  brazen  blue,  save 
where  dark  and  heavy  clouds  were  massing  slow- 
ly about  the  peak  of  Apotica.  The  heat  added 
to  the  difficulty  of  the  ascent,  which  now  lay  more 
steeply  before  him.  Simon  del  Pilar  lay  hidden 
from  sight  by  the  intervening  foothills;  he  was 
in  a  wilderness  of  stones. 

At  midday,  he  sat  down,  and  opening  his 
knapsack,   made   a  hurried  meal,  took  a  drink 

146 


THE    SHADOW 

from  his  flask,  and  began  to  climb  anew.  The 
evening  drew  on,  and  he  was  forced  to  look  about 
him  for  a  shelter  among  the  rocks,  where  he 
might  sleep  during  the  hours  of  darkness.  He 
found  one  readily  enough,  a  cuplike  depression 
under  the  lee  of  a  little  cliff,  and  improvised  a 
bed.  Sleep  deserted  him  for  many  hours.  Once 
he  started  to  his  elbow,  and  listened.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  a  shrill  wail  had  floated  down  from 
the  higher  ground.  It  was  not  repeated.  The 
silence  was  profound,  measureless,  the  blackness 
of  the  night  folded  about  him  like  a  cloak. 

The  next  day  he  had  entered  upon  the  final 
stage  of  his  journey.  The  ground  was  rougher 
now,  and  the  pitch  steeper.  He  had  to  walk 
carefully  to  avoid  stumbles  on  the  slippery  rock 
surfaces.  Yet  he  made  progress,  and  as  the 
hours  passed  found  himself  within  sight  of  the 
pass. 

All  day  he  had  been  traveling  upward  toward 
the  great  divide,  and  now  the  valley  beneath  and 
behind  him  began  to  fade  in  the  rapidly  gather- 
ing darkness.  He  had  passed  the  toilsome  day 
under  a  blazing  sun,  and  the  coming  of  night 
found  him  still  trudging  on.  As  he  ascended, 
he  had  been  conscious  of  a  change  in  the  atmos- 
phere, not  only  of  a  change  to  a  rare,  colder  air, 
but  acutely  conscious  of  some  grim  and  vaguely 
startling  influence  that  seemed  to  hang  about  the 

147 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMANi 

mountain's  higher  slopes.  Exactly  what  that  in- 
fluence was,  he  could  not  define  or  explain;  but 
that  there  was  such  an  influence,  depressing  his 
spirits,  slowing  his  steps,  and  weighting  all  his 
senses  with  a  prescience  of  evil,  he  felt  with  no 
common  degree  of  certitude. 

Presently,  he  had  mounted  the  narrow,  stony 
track,  and  reached  the  mouth  of  the  gloomy  de- 
file. Uneasiness  gained  upon  him.  He  stopped, 
glanced  from  one  side  to  the  other,  and  felt  in  his 
pocket  for  the  revolver.  Directly  in  front,  the 
track  lost  form  and  contour  in  the  prevailing 
darkness,  but,  to  either  side,  he  could  see  the 
rugged  rocks  piled  high  in  silhouette  against  the 
sky.  A  ridge  of  toothed  crags,  infinitely  lonely, 
they  stood  up  like  sinister  monuments  of  a  for- 
gotten time. 

He  made  a  step  forward,  stopped,  then  moved 
on  again.  Within  a  hundred  paces,  he  came  upon 
a  cabin,  half  hidden  in  a  recess  among  the  rocks, 
and  overshadowed  by  the  gaunt,  sweeping 
branches  of  some  mountain  pines  which  had  their 
roots  firmly  planted  in  a  rift  above.  It  would 
have  been  difficult  to  find  a  more  ill-conceived 
dwelling  for  any  human  creature.  Far  from  the 
murmur  of  humanity,  eerie,  desolate,  it  was  ex- 
posed to  all  the  icy  winds  which  were  trapped  in 
the  narrow  gorge,  and  found  their  vent  here  in 
bursts  and  gusts  of  almost  cyclonic  violence.  Yet, 

148 


THE    SHADOW 

Smith  was  heartened  by  the  sight  of  it;  it  spoke 
for  life,  assured  him  that  he  was  not  alone  under 
the  threat  of  the  night  sky.  He  advanced,  and 
stood  Hstening. 

A  rude  door,  flanked  by  a  ruder  window,  gave 
entrance  to  the  hut.  For  a  moment,  he  debated 
with  himself;  then  knocked,  and,  receiving  no 
answer,  knocked  again.  That  was  more  effec- 
tive. A  shuffling  footstep  began  to  move  about 
within;  and,  presently,  the  silence  was  further 
broken  by  the  striking  of  flint  upon  steel.  Then 
a  tiny  flicker  of  light  showed  from  the  interior, 
sufficiently  illuminating  it  to  enable  him  to  dis- 
cern the  bent  figure  of  an  old  woman,  who  stood 
looking  at  him,  a  bare  pace  away.  In  one  hand 
she  carried  a  lamp,  improvised  from  a  ragged 
tin,  filled  with  oil  upon  which  a  wick  floated. 

Smith  withdrew  his  hand  from  his  pocket, 
with  some  relief.  "  Buenas  noches,  7nadre  mia," 
he  said,  summoning  at  once  his  courage  and  his 
Spanish.     "  It  is  cold  without.     May  I  enter  ?  " 

She  nodded,  still  regarding  him  curiously 
from  under  knitted  brows.  She  was  a  tall  wom- 
an despite  the  stoop  of  age.  "  Come  with  God, 
senor.     Regard  this  house  as  your  own." 

She  said  it  as  if  reciting  a  time-worn  formula 
without  a  hint  of  genuine  welcome,  but  Smith 
accepted  the  invitation  with  a  bow,  and  a  polite: 
"  Con  permiso,  senorita." 

149 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

She  withdrew,  as  he  advanced,  and  indicating 
a  rough  bench,  with  a  motion  of  her  sinewy  hand, 
waited  till  he  had  seated  himself.  Then  she,  too, 
sat  down,  upon  a  bundle  of  rags  in  a  corner, 
placing  the  lamp  on  a  bracket,  above  which  hung 
a  curiously  carved  crucifix.  Smith  settled  him- 
self comfortably,  took  out  tobacco  and  rice  paper, 
and  rolling  a  cigarette,  handed  it  to  her. 

She  accepted  it,  with  a  word  of  thanks,  and 
rising,  went  to  light  it  at  the  lamp.  While  she 
was  thus  occupied,  he  glanced  round  the  dimly 
lit  interior,  studying  it  with  a  view  to  ascertain- 
ing the  station  of  life  filled  by  his  taciturn  hostess. 
He  saw  little  enough,  nothing,  indeed,  to  arouse 
curiosity  or  excite  comment.  It  was  a  bare  place. 
The  settle  upon  which  he  sat;  a  rough  box  that 
evidently  did  duty  for  a  table ;  and,  in  one  corner, 
a  pallet  of  sacking,  completed  the  equipment. 
The  walls  and  the  roof  were  in  shadow  too  deep 
to  be  explored  by  the  eye;  opposite  him,  a  fire 
burned  in  a  rude  grate,  or  fireplace,  but  so  slug- 
gishly, and  under  such  a  coat  of  ashes,  that  it  lent 
but  little  heat  to  the  room. 

He  was  sitting  there  silently,  wondering  what 
had  driven  a  woman  to  reside  in  these  solitudes, 
when  she  returned,  and  reseating  herself,  smoked 
with  visible  enjoyment.  He  could  see  that  she 
was  studying  his  face  closely ;  and  was  not  at  all 
surprised  when  she  took  the  cigarette  from  her 

150 


THE    SHADOW 

mouth,  to  ask,  "  What  does  the  seiior  at  night, 
and  alone,  in  the  Pass  of  the  Dog?  " 

He  shrugged,  searching  his  mind  for  scraps 
of  barren  Spanish  philosophy.  "  Why  not?  "  he 
said  slowly,  emitting  a  stream  of  smoke  from  be- 
tween his  tight  lips.  *'  It  is  all  the  same,  el  mismo, 
is  it  not?  One  place  as  well  as  another ;  one  time 
as  well  as  another.  To-day  or  to-morrow — what 
is  the  difference?  " 

"  None,  sefior,"  she  replied,  and  he  thought 
he  heard  her  chuckle.  "  Who  cares  what  they  say 
in  the  valley?  They  are  as  stupid  as  sheep  all  of 
them,  but  I  warrant  that  not  one  of  their  tales 
would  snatch  a  moment's  sleep  from  the  sefior. 
They  talk  of  this  very  pass,  below  there " 

She  fell  silent  then,  and  the  ash  of  the  ciga- 
rette between  her  lips  glowed  again.  Smith  ob- 
served her  furtively.  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on 
him,  and  he  noticed  that  they  were  keen,  though 
not  unkindly.  Her  voice  was  harsh,  the  voice 
of  an  old  woman  who  has  lost  the  melody  of 
speech. 

"  The  night  is  long,  mother,"  he  said  pres- 
ently.   "  You  shall  tell  me  a  story — no?  " 

She  laughed  then :  "  Who  knows,  sefior. 
Lx^ng  years  breed  long  tongues,  and  the  tales  of 
age  are  jarring  to  the  ears  of  youth." 

"  You  have  lived  long,"  he  went  on,  disre- 
garding the  qualification   added  to  her   assent. 

151 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  You  must  have  heard  much  that  is  interesting. 
There  is  that  tale  of  the  Dog.  I  have  heard  it 
in  the  village  below,  in  many  villages,  but  it  is  ill 
told,  and  one  does  not  know  how  much  to  be- 
lieve." 

She  started  slightly  at  his  words :  "  The 
sehor  speaks  of  El  Perro?  Of  a  certainty  that 
tale  is  known  to  me  as  to  none  else.  But  it  is  not 
a  tale  to  be  told  near  this  pass." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  would  hear  it,"  said  Smith, 
rolling  another  cigarette,  and  handing  it  to  her. 
She  placed  it  behind  her  ear,  got  up  to  stir  the 
fire,  and  returning  to  her  seat,  began  to  speak : 

"  They  called  him  El  Perro  because  he  was 
always  accompanied  by  a  dog.  And  such  a  dog, 
sefior!  big  as  a  mule,  fierce  as  a  mountain  Hon, 
but  absolutely  devoted  to  his  master.  El  Perro 
had  come  here  from  Spain.  He  had  been  a 
contrabandist  a,  a  smuggler,  and  was  ever  in 
trouble  with  the  civil  guard  over  there.  It  was 
said  that  he  had  killed  some  one,  and  was  forced 
to  fly  from  his  home.  What  lay  open  to  him 
here?  He  might  have  bought  a  ranchito,  and 
wasted  his  years  in  working  on  the  land,  or  with 
cattle.  But  it  does  not  go  so  with  the  man  of 
spirit.  Oxen  to  the  plow,  but  the  eagle  to  the 
heights  above  the  sierras!  That  was  long  ago, 
at  the  time  of  the  great  revolution.  The  revo- 
lutionaries were  badly  armed  at  first,  and  the 

152 


THE    SHADOW 

Blancos  kept  them  running  from  pillar  to  post. 
But  arms  can  be  procured,  and  they  found  El 
Perro  the  man  for  that  business.  Fierce  but 
crafty ;  a  man  of  uncommon  strength.  And  then 
there  was  the  dog " 

She  paused  to  light  a  fresh  cigarette.  The 
wind  was  rising  without,  and  a  gust,  loosened 
suddenly  from  the  tightened  throat  of  the  gorge, 
burst  out  with  a  thunderous  rush  that  shook  the 
timber  walls  of  the  hut  till  they  rattled  again. 
The  draught  under  the  door  sent  a  light  spray  of 
ashes  across  Smith's  feet,  and  he  drew  his  poncho 
closer  about  him.  "  You  were  here  then  ?  "  he 
asked  hastily. 

"  At  hand,  sefior,  at  hand,"  she  said,  showing 
her  teeth  in  a  smile.  "  But,  as  I  tell  you,  arms 
were  needed,  and  El  Perro  procured  them.  He 
used  to  come  over  this  pass  with  a  train  of  mules, 
each  one  carrying  a  goodly  burden.  And  the  dog 
followed  him  ever,  like  a  shadow.  It  was  a 
dangerous  errand,  and  the  government  party  had 
sworn  to  stake  him  out  if  they  caught  him  at  his 
tricks.  A  barking  dog  might  ruin  all,  but  his 
was  a  fell  hound,  and  ran  mute.  Master  and  dog 
were  alike  in  that,  for  El  Perro  was  silent  by  na- 
ture—    They  lived  in  this  hut,  sefior." 

Smith  looked  about  him  involuntarily.  The 
movement  did  not  pass  unnoticed,  for  the  old 

153 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

woman  saw  it,  and  chuckled,  as  she  took  up  her 
tale: 

"  Then  there  came  a  time  when  his  enemies 
pressed  closely  upon  him.  Some  of  the  people, 
below  there,  they  tortured,  and  a  weak-hearted 
fool  told  them  how  El  Perro  used  the  pass.  So 
one  night,  many  armed  men  came  up  and  hid 
among  the  rocks.  The  mule  train  with  the  arms 
was  already  coming  down  the  pass.  They  had 
not  long  to  wait." 

Smith  had  not  heard  this  before.  The  vil- 
lagers had  simply  spoken  of  the  dog.  He  nodded 
interestedly. 

"  The  night  was  not  like  this,"  she  went  on, 
*'  it  was  still.  The  wind  did  not  shout  in  the  pass 
as  it  is  shouting  now.  One  could  hear  the  tread, 
the  shuffling  of  the  mules.  Ah,  it  was  a  well- 
planned  ambuscade.  El  Perro  was  at  the  mouth 
of  the  gorge  before  he  got  warning  of  his  danger. 
Then  it  was  the  dog  that  told  him — it  became  un- 
easy; snififed,  and  refused  to  go  on.  The  mules, 
crowding  together  when  the  firing  began,  were 
shot  so  that  they  might  not  stampede  with  their 
burdens.  It  was  like  a  battle,  the  shots,  the 
smoke  that  filled  the  air — but  El  Perro  went 
down  at  the  first  discharge,  and  they  thought  to 
have  had  him.  Yet  he  was  crafty.  It  was  only 
a  shot  wound  in  the  arm,  and  he  was  up,  and 
running  again,  before  they  could  seize  him.    He 

154 


THE    SHADOW 

dashed  down  the  pass,  senor,  and  was  hidden 
from  them  among  the  rocks ;  in  a  cave  which  he 
thought  was  safe  hiding.  The  dog  followed  at 
his  heels." 

The  old  woman's  voice  had  sunk  to  a  whisper. 
She  swayed  a  little  on  her  heels  as  she  went  on: 
"  The  dog  had  always  kept  mute,  and  who  knows 
what  suddenly  possessed  him.  As  the  soldiers 
searched  the  rocks,  the  dog  howled,  and  the  noise 
of  it  went  out  to  the  searchers  in  that  stillness. 
The  hiding  place  was  revealed,  and  the  game 
was  up." 


11 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE    VISITANT 

THE  old  woman  sat  motionless.  She 
swayed  no  longer;  and  the  anger  had 
died  out  of  her  voice.  Again  the  wind, 
thundering  from  the  mouth  of  the  gorge,  swept 
over  the  stony  downward  slopes,  and  boomed 
emptily  in  the  rock  recesses  among  the  clififs.  In 
the  hut,  the  lamp  flickered  and  smoked;  the  em- 
bers of  the  fire  shot  up  into  a  little  tongue  of 
flame.  In  the  momentary  stillness  that  followed, 
Smith  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  almost  un- 
controllable dismay.  Before  the  gust  had  spent 
itself  he  thought  he  heard  a  dog  howling  in  the 
pass.    It  was  a  short,  shrill  note. 

"What's  that?" 

The  old  woman  was  smoking  again.  She 
made  an  uneasy  movement,  then  sat  still.  Per- 
haps, she  did  not  hear  him,  at  all  events  she  re- 
turned no  answer  to  his  question.  Smith  listened 
awhile,  until  he  had  half  convinced  himself  that 
the  sound  existed  only  in  his  own  heated  imagina- 

156 


THE    VISITANT 

tion.  When  he  looked  at  the  lamp  it  was  burn- 
ing" steadily;  the  fire  smoldered  once  more  under 
its  coat  of  ashes.  He  strove  to  regain  his  con- 
trol. 

"  The  game  was  up,  you  say,"  he  ventured. 

"  At  an  end,  senor,"  said  the  old  woman,  rous- 
ing herself  with  a  start.  "  At  once,  the  soldiers 
rushed  into  the  cave.  One  can  imagine  the  con- 
fusion: the  shots  fired  at  random  in  the  dark- 
ness; the  cries  of  the  men.  When  at  last  they 
dragged  El  Perro  out  he  was  dead  from  a  dozen 
wounds.  They  were  about  to  depart,  when  some 
one  suggested  that  the  dog  still  remained.  They 
drew  lots  to  decide  who  should  enter  the  cave  to 
fetch  him — Ojala!  they  had  suffered  at  El  Per- 
ro's  hands,  but  this  was  the  end.  The  man  upon 
whom  the  lot  fell  came  out  unhurt.  The  dog, 
senor,  he  dragged  with  him,  sweating  under  the 
burden.     A  dead  dog " 

Smith  nervously  lit  another  cigarette.  *'  It 
was  killed  in  the  fusillade  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Killed,  yes.  But  not  by  the  soldiers.  El 
Perro  never  forgave  a  traitor.  Was  an  injury 
done  him  of  set  purpose,  it  was  repaid.  Was 
it  done  without  thought,  it  would  be  repaid,  also. 
The  dog  had  betrayed  his  hiding  place,  and  he 
stabbed  it  on  the  instant.  That,  sefior,  was  El 
Perro." 

She  ended  her  story  there.  Her  voice  had  a 
157 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

note  of  finality;  and,  for  all  his  efforts,  he  could 
not  induce  her  to  speak  further  of  man  or  dog. 

"  The  villagers  below  say  that  the  dog  still — 
prowls."  He  fished  for  a  confirmation  or  denial 
of  that  impossible  tale. 

"  Senor,  they  are  stupid.  I  have  said  it,"  she 
returned. 

Smith  found  only  a  banality  for  answer. 
"  Of  course,  of  course,"  he  admitted. 

He  sat  silently  smoking  until  midnight.  He 
had  placed  his  well-filled  pouch  at  the  old  wom- 
an's disposal;  and  she  was  turned  a  little  from 
him;  staring,  without  word  or  motion,  into  the 
dying  fire.  Every  gust  that  shook  the  hut,  the 
shouting  of  the  rising  storm,  gave  Smith  cause 
to  congratulate  himself  on  his  foresight  in  hav- 
ing obtained  a  shelter  from  the  elements.  He 
imagined  himself  trudging  alone  along  that 
empty,  lonely  pass,  beaten  by  the  wind,  chilled  by 
the  intense  cold  of  that  rare  and  penetrating  air. 
Or  would  he  have  succeeded  in  advancing  ?  That 
question  held  terrible  suggestions. 

At  last  the  old  woman  stirred,  took  the  cig- 
arette from  between  her  lips,  and  looked  at  him 
over  her  shoulder. 

"  You  have  eaten,  senor  ?  " 

He  nodded:  "Before  dusk  fell,  mother." 

*'  Good,  now  it  is  time  to  sleep." 

Without  waiting  for  his  answer,  she  rose, 

158 


THE    VISITANT 

went  to  a  corner  of  the  hut,  and  pulling  out  a 
rough,  matted  hammock,  said,  "  The  sefior  will 
know  how  to  hang  it.    I  myself  have  a  bed." 

"  Gracias,  gracias."  Smith  busied  himself 
with  the  hammock,  which  he  extended  between 
two  iron  hooks  driven  into  the  log  framing  of  the 
walls.  The  old  woman  trimmed  the  wick  of  the 
lamp;  then  crossed  to  the  rag  pallet,  and  flung 
herself  down  without  further  ceremony. 

He  was  not  a  superstitious  man,  indeed, 
boasted  that  he  regarded  all  spiritual  manifesta- 
tions with  the  completest  skepticism.  But  the 
story  persisted  in  his  thoughts,  seeming  to  gain 
verisimilitude,  reality,  and  point  from  his  pres- 
ent dreary  surroundings.  This  was  the  very  hut 
in  which  El  Perro  had  lived,  and  outside  lay  the 
pass  in  which  the  last  scene  of  his  tragedy  had 
been  enacted.  There  was  the  dog — a  fell  brute, 
but  silent,  until  the  last  moment.  He  had  thought 
he  heard  it  as  the  old  woman  told  her  tale. 

At  that,  common  sense  tried  to  pull  him  up. 
He  tried  to  feel  impatient  at  his  own  credulity. 
What  could  there  be  in  the  story  of  a  dog  to  give 
any  reasonable  man  uneasiness?  Absolutely 
nothing.  He  repeated  it:  absolutely  nothing. 
He  laughed  softly,  but  without  comforting  him- 
self. 

Presently  his  preparations  were  completed, 
and,  with  a  glance  at  the  silent  iigure  on  the 

159 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

pallet,  he  swung  himself  into  the  hammock.  How 
to  sleep  ?  He  followed  uncounted  sheep  over  un- 
countable fences,  started  on  a  long  detour  of 
thought,  and  shuddered,  when  he  found  himself 
at  the  point  from  which  he  had  started.  The 
dog 


The  thing  was  horribly  insistent.  He  fell 
then  to  thinking  of  the  storm.  It  still  held  full 
sway;  and  the  noise  of  its  jubilant  passage 
through  the  gorge  beat  in  his  ears  with  increas- 
ing force.  Each  lull  found  him  fearfully  wait- 
ing to  hear  that  shrill  note  that  had  once  risen 
above  the  tumult  of  the  wind.  He  opened  his 
eyes  again  on  gray  gloom.  From  the  wick  of 
the  lamp  a  vagrant  stream  of  smoke  eddied  and 
spun.  The  draught  whirled  a  handful  of  ashes 
from  the  fire  and  sent  them  dancing  in  gray  vor- 
tices across  the  floor.  Half  hidden  from  him  in 
the  shadows  of  the  corner,  the  old  woman's  couch 
was  placed;  and,  upon  it,  she  slept  immovably 
but  noisily ;  still  and  calm,  in  sharp  contrast  with 
his  own  invincible  wakefulness. 

His  glance  was  attracted  to  the  moving,  dis- 
torted shadow  of  the  rude  crucifix  swayed  on  its 
hook  by  the  draught,  and  beating  a  tattoo  on  the 
timber  wall.  He  had  an  ever-increasing  desire 
to  sleep.  His  lids  drooped,  closed,  and  opening 
again,  found  the  room  indistinct  and  formless. 
He  passed  without  consciousness  from  this  state 

1 60 


THE   VISITANT 

of  decreasing  wakefulness,  and,  sleeping,  fol- 
lowed the  history  of  the  dog  in  tortuous  and  un- 
easy dreams. 

It  was  almost  two  o'clock  when  he  awoke  with 
a  start.  Looking  at  his  watch,  he  was  able  to 
note  the  time  before  the  lamp  went  out.  At  that 
hour  the  wind  had  lulled,  and  the  place  was  sunk 
in  utter  silence.  As  he  replaced  the  watch  in 
his  waistcoat  pocket,  the  wick  of  the  lamp  fell 
suddenly  into  the  dregs  of  the  oil ;  and  the  offen- 
sive smell  of  its  smoldering  filled  him  with  fierce 
and  unreasoning  anger.  He  felt  cold;  the  chill 
air  penetrated  his  clothing,  and  made  him  shiver 
again.  But,  even  on  awakening,  his  mind  re- 
verted to  the  dog.  The  silence,  the  absence  of 
wind  outside,  went  to  remind  him  of  it.  Her 
phrase  lingered  vividly  in  his  mind,  *'  The  wind 
did  not  shout  in  the  pass  as  it  is  shouting  now." 

The  feeling  of  acute  depression  which  had  as- 
sailed him  as  he  ascended  the  mountain  in  the 
gathering  dusk  had  been  partially  dissipated 
when  he  entered  the  hut,  and  came  in  touch  with 
humanity  in  the  person  of  the  woman.  Now,  it 
returned  with  double  force.  He  fell  into  that 
nervous  state  in  which  a  man  is  particularly  re- 
ceptive of  sense  impressions  of  the  more  morbid 
sort.  Hearing,  touch,  sight  were  immensely 
magnified,  as  it  seemed.  He  thought  he  saw 
somethino-  in  the  shadows,  heard  strange  sounds 

i6i 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

from  the  stillness.  Raising  himself  on  one  arm, 
he  listened  intently.  No,  it  was  nothing  after  all, 
except,  perhaps,  the  old  woman's  stertorous 
breathing. 

Once  more  he  laid  his  head  down,  and  was 
fast  relapsing  into  drowsiness,  when  a  strange 
sound  from  without — he  could  have  imagined  it 
the  soft  padding  of  an  animal  about  the  hut — 
finally  drove  all  thought  of  sleep  from  his  mind. 

He  sat  up  in  the  swaying  hammock,  his  brow 
wet  with  moisture,  and  stared  affrightedly  into 
the  gloom.  To  himself  he  admitted  that  it  was 
futile  to  put  a  prosaic  interpretation  upon  the 
affair.  His  common  sense,  his  boasted  scorn  of 
all  that  extended  beyond  the  fringe  of  practical 
life,  vanished  in  that  instant.  He  might  assure 
himself  that  a  wild  beast  was  prowling  about 
outside  the  hut;  might  argue  a  thousand  times 
that  such  things  were  impossible,  ridiculous, 
mere  figments  of  an  excited  imagination ;  but  the 
fact  remained  that  he  now  believed  he  was  in  the 
presence  of  a  phenomenon  transcending  purely 
human  experience. 

Then,  as  he  listened,  the  soft  padding  sound 
retreated.  It  seemed  to  move  up  the  pass  and 
stop.  He  thought  of  the  revolver  that  lay  in  the 
pocket  of  his  coat,  which  he  had  taken  off  and 
left  beneath  the  hammock.    Yet,  if  he  had  it  now 

162 


THE    VISITANT 

in  his  hand,  what  good  would  it  be  to  him,  what 
purpose  could  it  serve  in  an  encounter  with  a 
phantom  ?  He  groaned  at  the  utter,  the  immense 
futility  of  it,  and  lay  still  again,  straining  his  ears 
to  catch  the  faintest  whisper.  The  sound  came 
again,  and  he  knew  that  the  creature — whatever 
it  were — was  approaching  once  more.  Circling 
the  hut,  it  seemed  to  pause  at  the  door,  only  a  few 
feet  away.  He  was  in  a  state  of  pitiable  fright, 
yet  he  could  not  utter  a  cry.  He  looked  at  the 
old  woman,  and  thought  he  could  detect  a  move- 
ment; he  strove  to  force  a  sound  from  his  dry 
lips.  Still,  she  slept,  lying  there  beyond  him  in 
the  shadows.  That  was  his  fear — that  she  might 
sleep  on,  leaving  him,  conscious  and  awake,  to 
confronjt  the  apparition. 

The  sound  of  faint  padding  had  again  died 
away.  There  was  silence.  Yet,  so  great  is  the 
craving  of  the  lonely  soul  for  the  comfort  of  ex- 
terior influences,  he  wished  something — even 
that — would  break  the  silence.  He  had  not 
heard  the  creature  enter.  So  far  as  his  senses 
told  him  it  was  still  outside  the  hut.  But,  against 
the  evidence  of  his  senses,  was  a  deadly  certainty 
that  it  now  stood  within  the  four  walls.  It  had 
seemed  to  float  in  with  the  draught  of  cold  air; 
and,  though  he  could  not  touch  it  or  see  it,  he 
was  as  certain  of  its  presence  as  of  his  own  ex- 
istence.    What  of  the  old  woman?     Would  it 

163 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

wake  her?    Was  it,  even  now,  over  there  by  her 
pallet? 

There  is  no  terror  so  great  as  that  which  our 
senses  refuse  to  confirm.  Our  hands  may  grip 
mysteries  without  a  shudder,  so  long  as  they  are 
clothed  in  the  material,  which  is  our  comfort. 
That  consolation  was  denied  to  Smith.  He 
knew;  yet  he  could  not  tell  how  he  knew.  In  a 
word,  he  was  conscious  of  a  presence  unknown  to 
his  experience,  while  believing  that  this  con- 
sciousness had  not  been  conveyed  to  him  by  any 
of  the  normal  channels  of  human  knowledge. 

His  hands  burned,  while  his  face  was  cold 
and  moist.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  waited 
interminably.  Nothing  stirred;  the  hut  was 
wrapped  in  darkness,  sunk  in  a  silence  complete 
and  profound.  The  waiting  grew  unbearable. 
Fate  might  do  with  him  as  it  wished,  if  it  would 
only  strike  quickly.  He  felt  that  he  might  lose 
all  grip  on  sanity  if  compelled  to  lie  there,  a  prey 
to  these  tormenting  and  intolerable  thoughts.  He 
laid  a  hand  on  the  matted  string  supporting  the 
hammock.  Presently,  it  slipped,  and  hung 
limply.  He  had  all  the  will  to  withdraw  it,  but 
his  muscles  seemed  palsied,  inert,  useless.  That 
phase  lasted  a  minute,  a  fragment  of  time  pro- 
tracted to  an  age.  Hunching  up  his  shoulders, 
he  lay  with  his  face  turned  half  downward.    He 

164 


THE    VISITANT 

ceased  to  think  coherently,  lying  there,  dully  re- 
signed, incapable  of  speech  or  action. 

Then  a  sound  came  to  him  out  of  the  stillness, 
a  low  whine,  shrill  and  melancholy.  His  sensa- 
tions were  for  a  moment  curiously  epitomized 
in  a  great  feeling  of  relief.  Then  the  fear  of  the 
thing  came  back  to  him  in  a  rush  of  disordered 
thoughts.  He  started  up  wildly.  He  shouted, 
too,  and  as  he  shouted,  he  sprang  from  the  ham- 
mock, and  flung  himself  blindly  at  the  door. 
His  voice  rang  out  again,  to  be  lost  in  the  roar  of 
a  gust  of  wind  that  had  gathered  in  the  pass 
above,  and  now  burst  whirling  from  the  narrow 
vent.  To  his  excited  brain  it  seemed  that  strange 
sounds  floated  down  to  him,  a  noise  of  shuffling, 
a  faint  whisper  from  behind,  a  whimper  from  the 
eternal  fastnesses  of  the  rocks. 

The  door  gave  with  him,  and  he  dashed  out 
to  the  track,  and  headed  downward,  running  like 
a  madman,  swerving  and  staggering,  while  the 
stones  clattered  under  his  furious  feet.  He  did 
not  look  behind  him,  but  went  on,  holding  his 
hands  before  his  face  as  if  to  ward  off  some 
approaching  menace.  He  mumbled  to  himself 
as  he  ran;  two  words  repeated  monotonously: 
"The  Dog!" 

About  ten  hours  later,  Leon,  the  mulatto, 
brought  him  into  Copar  on  a  mule,  and  turned 
into  Seguien's  pulperia.     At  that  time  he  was 

165 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

raving  a  good  deal,  and  bleeding  slightly  through 
a  bandage  which  was  wrapped  about  his  head. 
The  mule  was  exhausted,  and  had  evidently 
traveled  far  and  fast,  with  the  wounded  man 
slung  in  a  kind  of  hammock  to  one  side.  Leon 
sat  down  on  a  stone,  panting. 

"  Mother  of  Heaven !  "  cried  Seguien,  staring 
at  him  in  astonishment,  *'  what  has  happened, 
friend?  This  Americano  came  to  an  arriero's 
about  three  days  ago,  I  heard,  and  was  going  up 
to  the  pass."  He  crossed  himself  hurriedly, before 
he  added,  "  These  foreign  sefiores  will  never  be- 
lieve, until  the  trouble  comes  upon  them." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Leon,  nodding  rapidly. 
''  One  imagines  that  the  dog  came  upon  him, 
and  he  fled  down  the  mountain.  Then  he  trips 
and  falls  with  his  head  against  a  stone.  He  is 
very  bad." 

Seguien  gesticulated  hopelessly :  "  And  there 
is  no  doctor  nearer  than  Santola.  Ay  de  mi! 
What  is  a  man  to  do  ?  " 

Leon  rose  and  went  over  to  the  mule :  "  Come 
and  assist  me  with  him.  He  must  be  taken  into 
your  house,  and  put  to  bed.  It  must  be  an  in- 
sect which  has  got  into  his  brain,  for  he  talks 
wildly.  I  found  him  lying  near  the  foot  of  the 
mountains." 

Between  them  they  unslung  the  hammock, 
and   carried    Smith    into    the    house.      He    had 

1 66 


THE    VISITANT 

fallen  silent  now,  and  his  eyes  had  a  glazed,  fixed 
look.  Once  inside,  they  called  Seguien's  wife  to 
their  assistance,  and  presently  had  the  wounded 
man  stripped  and  put  to  bed.  They  did  not  dare 
to  disturb  the  bandage  for  fear  of  hemorrhage. 

That  duty  completed,  the  two  men  went  out- 
side to  confer.  It  puzzled  them  to  decide  what 
had  best  be  done. 

"  Santola  is  impossible !  "  said  Leon,  present- 
ly. "  He  might  die  before  the  doctor  could 
come.  A  letter,  however,  must  be  sent,  and  one 
might  address  it  to  the  Major-Domo  of  the  Sefior 
Smith,  Calle  Huelva  No.  4,  Santola,  with  the 
information  that  the  sefior  is  ill  here.  Then  there 
is  the  town  of  Pano,  that  has  a  station  on  the 
railway,  and  if  there  is  no  doctor,  at  least  one 
could  be  sent  for  by  rail.  That  is  one  day's  hard 
ride,  but  I  shall  go  there  if  you  lend  me  a  horse. 
We  could  procure  assistance  in  three  days  at 
most —  Ah,  I  had  forgotten,  it  is  impossible  that 
I  should  go.  I  must  return  at  once  to  my  home. 
You  must  send  a  peon.'' 

Seguien  wrung  his  hands :  ''  What  am  I  to 
do  with  this  man?  They  will  hold  me  respon- 
sible." 

Leon  shrugged,  raising  sympathetic  eye- 
brows :  *'  I  am  sorry,  but  I  must  return  at  once." 

Seguien  watched  him  approach  the  mule,  and 
gasped  with   fury.    "I  will  not  allow  it!"  he 

167 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

cried  angrily.  "  You  brought  the  senor 
here " 

Leon  mounted.  "  I  shall  leave  him  here,"  he 
said  calmly.  "  Do  as  I  tell  you,  and  there  will  be 
no  trouble.  I  have  done  my  possible.  Now  I 
must  return.    Adios,  senor." 

He  jogged  off  before  Seguien  could  think  of 
a  rejoinder.  The  latter  beat  his  breast,  and 
raised  his  arms  then  in  appeal  to  heaven  to  blast 
this  insolent.  He  swore  for  a  minute  without 
ceasing,  and  turning  went  slowly  into  his  house. 


ii 


CHAPTER    XII 

A    CLEARED    FIELD 

HEAVY  hills  are  only  mounted  by  con- 
stant and  continuous  effort.  Every 
rest,  every  interruption  to  the  ascent, 
adds  to  the  moral  difficulties,  and  disposes  the 
climber  to  postpone  the  final  stage  which  shall 
carry  him  triumphantly  to  the  summit. 

Rourke  still  lingered  in  Santola,  held  there 
by  Jeanne's  spell,  and  ever  more  unwilling  to 
hasten  the  negotiations  with  Courvois.  The  mo- 
ment had,  perhaps,  passed,  when  a  bold  policy 
would  have  secured  for  him  a  payment  in  full 
of  the  sum  he  demanded  for  his  claim.  He  fa- 
vored the  policy  of  drawing  the  money  in  install- 
ments. Yet  the  delay  had  made  the  Frenchman 
a  trifle  suspicious;  at  all  events,  bred  in  him  in- 
difference which  was  as  much  genuine  as  af- 
fected. 

Rourke  was  not  quite  blind  to  the  possible 
results  of  his  procrastination.  He  began  to  see 
that  each  installment  would  come  more  and  more 
unwillingly ;  yet  he  strove  to  forget  that  essential 

169 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

fact,  and  assumed  an  optimistic  attitude.  He  was 
astonished  at  his  own  powers  of  self-deception; 
disgusted,  indeed,  that  he  should  consent  to  lull 
his  fears  to  sleep,  and  hazard  his  fortunes  for  a 
woman's  smile. 

But,  after  all,  this  was  only  an  undercurrent, 
and  in  time  ceased  actively  to  disturb  him.  The 
passion  of  love  only  grudgingly  permits  consid- 
eration of  alien  subjects. 

He  was  thrown  back,  however,  upon  unpala- 
table realities  by  meeting,  rather  more  than  a  week 
after  Smith's  departure,  the  haciendero,  Mitad. 
This  latter  approached  him  with  the  boldness  of 
a  man  made  reckless  by  prospective  failure.  He 
looked  excited,  his  toothbrush  mustache  posi- 
tively bristled,  his  alert  eyes,  glowing  with  the 
fire  of  balked  greed,  were  anxious,  perturbed, 
impatient.  The  extreme  and  unctuous  cordiality 
of  their  last  meeting  spoke  to  the  precarious  na- 
ture of  their  outwardly  friendly  relations;  and 
Rourke  felt  a  twinge  of  uneasiness  as  he  saw  the 
other  advance,  bowing,  to  greet  him. 

"Well,  sefior?"  he  said,  standing  quite  still, 
and  switching  his  leg  with  the  riding  whip  he 
carried. 

Mitad  cracked  his  fingers,  and  tugged  fero- 
ciously at  his  mustache.  He  was  obviously  full  of 
some  exasperating  news,  and  at  a  loss  to  impart 
it  without  indiscretion.    He  was  concerned,  too, 

170 


A    CLEARED    FIELD 

to  appear  at  his  ease;  an  effort  of  pose  which 
was   quite   beyond  his   powers   at   the   moment. 

"  You  know  the  Senor  Smith?  "  he  began  in 
a  strangled  voice,  as  if  swallowing  something 
patently  distasteful,  then  lowered  his  tone  to  a 
whisper,  like  a  man  aware  suddenly  of  the  pres- 
ence of  an  eavesdropper. 

"  You  know  him?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Slightly,''  said  Rourke,  quite  cool,  adding 
soothingly,  "  I've  met  him  indeed." 

Mitad  seemed  nonplussed  by  the  calmness  of 
his  tone,  made  an  awkward  movement,  and  said 
eagerly,  "  You  have  not  heard  the  news  ?  " 

Rourke  glanced  at  him  good-humoredly, 
showing  no  trace  of  interest  or  alarm.  "  Now, 
how  could  I  know " 

"  Of  course  not.  I  had  forgotten.  It  is 
impossible  that  you  should  know,  since  I  only 
heard  it  from  a  cafeteria  in  the  market  this 
morning.     He  comes  from  near  Pano." 

Rourke  looked  at  him  more  attentively. 

"  Something  has  happened  to  Smith,  eh  ?  I 
know  by  the  look  of  you  it's  bad  news.  But  I 
thought  some  one  told  me  he  had  gone  on  a 
holiday." 

The  expert  liar  needs  a  good  memory,  and 
Mitad  was  embarrassed  by  the  necessity  for  cer- 
tain concealments.  "  That,  of  course,"  he  mur- 
mured, trawling  in  the  seas  of  memory.  "  A 
13  171 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

holiday,  yes.  It  is  unfortunate  that  it  should 
have  happened  on  his  holiday." 

"  If  you'd  tell  me  what  has  happened." 

Mitad  smiled  in  a  relieved  way.  "  The  Sefior 
Smith  is  ill." 

"Serious?" 

"  Seiior  " — Mitad  drew  himself  up  and  re- 
garded his  companion  with  an  air  of  immense 
gravity — **  it  appears  that  he  is  loco — what  do 
you  say  ?  Ah,  '  dotty,'  that  is  it.  Of  the  brain, 
you  know." 

Rourke  repressed  an  expression  of  annoy- 
ance, and  pursed  up  his  lips :  "  Do  you  tell  me 
that !  Sure,  I'm  heart  sorry  for  the  poor  fellow. 
How'd  he  get  a  thing  like  that  now  ?  A  touch  of 
sun,  perhaps." 

Mitad  considered.  That  story  would  do  as 
well  as  another,  he  thought,  then  recollected  that 
Smith  was  said  to  have  sustained  some  injury  to 
the  skull :  "  No,  it  was  not  that.  One  under- 
stands that  it  might  have  been  caused  by  a  fall — 
or  by  a  blow."  As  he  spoke,  Mitad  half  turned 
so  that  he  could  sweep  Rourke's  face  with  a  side 
glance,  while  appearing  to  look  across  the  Ala- 
meda. 

"  A  blow !  Have  they  then  caught  the  ras- 
cal?" 

''  I  say,  sefior,  that  it  might  have  been  a 
blow,"  Mitad  replied,  with  an  assumption  of  care- 

172 


A    CLEARED    FIELD 

lessness.  "  I  hear  that  he  is  lying  in  a  pulperia 
at  Copar,  and  will  remain  there  until  he  has  re- 
covered sufficiently  to  be  removed  to  his  home 
here." 

Rourke  was  prepared  for  a  trap,  and  gave  no 
sign  of  interest  or  recognition  when  Copar  was 
mentioned.  He  was  rather  surprised  that  Mitad 
showed  some  mental  dexterity  in  placing  the 
significant  word  midway  in  a  commonplace 
sentence. 

"  Copar,"  he  said,  thoughtfully,  "  that's  over 
by  the  mountains.  Sure,  that's  a  strange  place 
for  a  man  to  spend  a  holiday  and  all." 

Mitad  was  triumphant.  "  You  know  the  place 
then?" 

Mitad  doubtless  expected  a  confused  denial, 
but  Rourke  took  the  wind  out  of  his  sails  by  a 
candid  admission,  leaving  him,  to  follow  the 
metaphor,  becalmed  in  a  sea  of  conjecture  with- 
out a  puff  of  air  to  give  his  thoughts  new  steer- 
age way. 

"  Yes,  I  know  the  place  quite  well,  having 
passed  through  it  off  and  on.  As  I  say,  it's  a 
poor  place  for  a  holiday.  Second-rate  entertain- 
ment for  either  man  or  beast — but  you  know  it, 
perhaps?  " 

His  quick  cross  look  turned  the  tables  on  the 
haciendero.  He  gasped  once  or  twice,  as  if 
something  held  his  breath  within  the  walls  of  his 

173 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

chest.  "  I  know  it  ?  Oh,  no,  senor,  I  have  not 
been  there.     One  hears  of  it,  of  course." 

"  Of  course,"  Rourke  agreed.  His  eyes  be- 
came absent. 

Mitad  returned  to  the  charge,  satisfied  that 
the  Irishman  knew  nothing  of  his  recent  trip  to 
the  mountains.  "  But  there  is  this  Sefior  Smith. 
Is  it  possible  that  he  has  been  set  upon  in  the 
hills?     There  may  be  ladrones " 

"  They  have  a  strange  story  about  a  dog — " 
Rourke  hinted. 

Mitad  spun  on  his  heels.  "  You  think 
then — "  he  began. 

"  I  wouldn't  believe  it,"  said  Rourke  quietly. 
"  It's  a  tale  for  old  wives.  I  see  that  you  believe 
this  phantom  came  upon  him  and  made  him  loco 
— the  fright,  eh  ?  " 

Mitad  crossed  himself.     "  Who  knows  ?  " 

Rourke  turned  away  impatiently.  The  fellow 
was  only  fishing  for  information,  and  nothing 
could  be  gained  by  prolonging  the  conversation. 
It  was  a  trifle  disquieting  that  he  should  know 
enough  to  hit  upon  Rourke  as  the  man  who  might 
conceivably  know  something  of  Smith,  but  it  did 
not  matter  after  all.  At  least,  that  was  what 
Rourke  thought,  as  he  said  farewell,  and  marched 
ofif  to  the  plaza,  leaving  Mitad  staring  after  him 
perplexedly. 

Courvois,  too,  had  heard  of  Smith's  mishap, 
174 


A    CLEARED    FIELD 

and  talked  the  subject  over  with  Rourke,  when 
the  latter  visited  the  cafe.  He  had  no  theory  to 
account  for  the  American's  accident,  but  it  was 
easy  to  see  that  he  suspected  that  the  speculator 
had  gone  to  the  mountains  with  a  view  to  discov- 
ering the  whereabouts  of  the  mine.  His  tone 
hinted  at  gratification,  when  he  spoke  of  the  acci- 
dent, though  he  expressed  sympathy  for  the  in- 
jured man.  Obviously,  he  was  glad  that  Smith 
had  been  put  out  of  the  way  for  a  little.  Perhaps 
he  thought  that  the  negotiations  with  Rourke 
would  run  more  smoothly  now  that  a  possible 
competitor  had  left  the  field.  He  came  round  to 
that  presently,  but  found  the  Irishman  indisposed 
to  talk  the  affair  over,  and  soon  left  him  for  the 
seclusion  of  his  office. 

Rourke  went  over  to  Jeanne.  ''  They're  all 
talking  of  Smith,"  he  said  to  her,  smiling. 
"  You'd  almost  think  it  was  a  national  catas- 
trophe." 

"Tiens! "  Jeanne  smiled  brightly  in  return. 
"  What  has  happened  to  this  monsieur  after  all  ? 
It  appears  that  he  went  on  a  holiday  to  the  moun- 
tains, and  hurt  his  head.  That  is  in  itself  not 
extraordinary,  as  I  believe." 

"  That's  the  right  line  to  take,  Jeanne,"  he 
said,  quizzingly.  "  We  men  were  busy  wrapping 
up  the  affair  in  mystery,  trying  to  see  something 
significant  if  not  symbolic  in  it,  when  your  com- 

175 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

mon  sense  comes  to  our  help  and  assures  us  that 
Smith  is  nothing  more  than  a  hoHday-maker  wid 
a  broken  head — and  what  more  is  he,  anyway?  " 

Jeanne  set  her  lips  scornfully,  and  glanced 
across  the  cafe  to  the  door  of  Courvois'  office, 
from  which  the  head  of  the  perturbed  cafe  pro- 
prietor was  thrust  out  suddenly,  as  if  in  fugitive 
reconnaissance.  "  What  is  there  between  you  and 
mon  pcre?  "  she  asked  quietly. 

Rourke  looked  down.  "  You  ought  to  know, 
I  suppose.  Well,  it's  nothing  more  than  a  deal 
over  a  mining  claim.  I  want  to  sell  it  to  him,  but 
he  won't  pay  my  price.  Smith  wants — or  wanted 
— to  buy  from  me,  and  when  I  wouldn't  come  to 
terms,  to  steal  it  from  me." 

"  Then  Monsieur  Smith  went  to  the  moun- 
tains  " 

"  Softly,  Jeanne !  You're  right  all  the  same. 
He  went  up  there  to  search  for  my  claim.  You 
remember  that  Mitad  went  away  for  a  while,  and 
came  back  here  just  the  day  before  Smith 
left." 

"  Then  Senor  Mitad  is  in  it,  too?  He  played 
jackal  to  the  other?  " 

"  Bedad,  he  did.  And  came  up  to  me  this 
morning,  directly  he  heard  of  Smith's  mishap. 
Tried  to  pump  me,  too,  thinking  that  I'd  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  accident." 

176 


I 


A    CLEARED    FIELD 

Jeanne  was  silent  for  a  little.  As  she  re- 
flected, the  color  rose  to  her  cheeks.  Rourke 
watched  her  quietly,  puzzling  for  motives,  and 
wondering  what  had  caused  her  to  feel  embar- 
rassed.   She  spoke  presently. 

"  Monsieur  Desmon',  I  have  a  confession  to 
make.  I  have  often  wished  to  tell  you,  but  I  have 
shame,  I  feel  that  I  have  done  wrong.  Yet, 
'  Savoir  tout — '  you  know." 

"  Let  me  know  then,"  he  said,  perplexed. 

She  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  continued :  "  It 
was  when  you  came  here  first.  Mon  pere  was 
suspicious  of  you.  He  asked  me  to  follow  you 
to  see  if  you  went  to  the  house  of  this  American. 
I  did  follow  you,  and  was  outside  in  the  shade  of 
the  house  opposite  when  you  came  out  once 
more — "     She  paused. 

"  I'll  give  you  absolution  for  that  right 
away  " — Rourke's  eyes  were  twinkling — "  be- 
cause I  saw  you.  Is  that  all  that  vexes  your  in- 
nocent heart,  my  dear?  " 

She  colored  even  more  hotly.  "  It  is  not 
all " 

"  Tell  me,  then." 

"  My  father  told  me  to  make  myself  attractive 
to  you,  to  be  gay,  coquette.  I  want — I  desire 
monsieur  to  believe — ah,  il  n'y  a  pas  de  mots." 

"  You  want  me  to  believe — "  he  helped  her 
gently. 

177 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  To  believe  that  I  have  not  been — amiable 
because  it  was  my  father's  wish " 

"  Bless  your  heart  for  an  angel !  "  he  said 
softly,  and  placed  his  hand  over  hers.  ''  Did  you 
think  I'd  be  after  telling  you  all  about  the  claim, 
if  I'd  thought  you  were  that  sort  ?  Sure,  Jeanne, 
it's  myself  is  wishing  to  carry  you  off  out  of  this, 
without  waiting  to  say  good-by  to  the  rest  of 
them." 

"  Monsieur  Desmon',"  she  said,  shyly,  "  I 
would  go  with  you  willingly,  at  once,  anywhere. 
We  love — and  is  that  not  all?  You  do  not  think 
that  mon  pere  would  object?  " 

He  cast  a  half-tragical  look  at  her,  and  bit  his 
lip.  *'  Where  would  we  go,  my  dear,  and  how 
would  we  live?  " 

"  But  you  must  have  a  home  somewhere ;  and 
there  will  be  the  money  for  this  mine." 

His  face  reddened.  "  The  money  for  the 
claim!  Och,  Jeanne,  and  what  am  I  to  say  to 
you!     You  don't  understand." 

She  was  watching  his  face  anxiously :  ''  But 
I  wish  to.  I  am  not  stupid.  Between  us,  per- 
haps  " 

He  shook  his  head,  and  when  he  spoke  again, 
all  the  gayety  had  gone  out  of  his  voice,  his  face 
was  as  it  had  been  when  he  left  Leon  and  hurried 
away  from  the  ill-omened  pass.  Events  were 
marching  quickly  now.     He  must  decide  soon. 

178 


A    CLEARED    FIELD 

What  that  decision  meant  to  him  might  be  read  in 
his  anxious  eyes.  He  did  not  raise  them  to 
Jeanne's  face,  but  fixed  them  on  some  object,  quite 
outside  his  thoughts,  that  stood  in  the  distance  of 
the  cafe.  The  voices  of  the  few  frequenters  of 
the  cafe,  sitting  at  tables  near  the  entrance, 
seemed  penetrating,  aggressive,  personal.  It  was 
almost  as  if  they  were  talking  of  him.  His  ears 
were  prophetic —  "  That  claim  of  the  Irishman, 
you  have  heard  of  it,  senor,"  or  "  Courvois 
bought  the  rights,  is  that  not  a  good  joke?"  They 
seemed  to  be  saying  these  things,  though,  in  real- 
ity, discussing  their  own  inconsiderable  affairs. 

He  awoke  with  a  start  to  the  consciousness  of 
Jeanne's  presence  (poor  dear!)  and  knew  that 
she  was  speaking  to  him. 

"  If  my  father  knew  that  you — that  we — 
might  he  not  buy  these  rights  ?  " 

He  laughed  suddenly,  harshly.  "  He  might, 
Jeanne,  he  might — "  He  broke  oft'  for  a  moment, 
then  resumed:  "  Give  me  time,  my  dear.  Let  me 
think  it  over.  In  ten  days'  time,  I  may  be  able 
to  explain  everything.  It  isn't  fair  to  ask  you 
to  wait,  not  knowing,  but  it  has  to  be.  If  you 
can't  wait,  then  I  must  go — that's  all." 

She  was  quite  puzzled,  but  assented  with  a 
nod.     "  Of  course  I  will  wait,"  she  said  softly. 

He  looked  immensely  relieved.  But  at  the 
back  of  his  mind  was  the  knowledge  that,   as 

179 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

things  were,  he  and  Jeanne  might  never  come 
together,  that  their  love  might  be  no  more  than 
an  episode,  a  broken  romance.  That  thought  em- 
bittered his  outlook. 

"  Some  of  us  are  born  with  a  load  on  our 
back,"  he  said  slowly,  "  and  some  of  us  put  it 
there ;  but  born  or  put  there,  it  sticks.  We  have 
our  responsibilities." 

"  Quelle  enigme! "  said  Jeanne,  almost  de- 
spairingly. 

He  went  on  as  if  speaking  to  himself.  "  What 
is  that  ould  Latin  tag  I  learned  at  school?  *  Finis, 
Finis  coronat  opus' — Ay,  but  does  it?  Is  that 
true?" 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Jeanne. 

"  Is  it  right  to  turn  back  when  you've  prom- 
ised to  go  on?  "  he  asked,  seeming  to  hang  upon 
her  lips.  "  Even  when  you  can't  go  back  and  ask 
the  person  you  promised  to  release  you." 

She  was  struggling  to  understand.  "  One 
promises,"  she  said  slowly.  "  I  think  one  keeps  a 
promise,  too." 

He  assumed  a  look  of  resolution :  "  Yes,  and 
I'll  keep  mine.  Well,  it's  au  revoir,  Jeanne,  I'll 
drop  in  and  see  you  again  to-morrow.  But  I 
must  be  going  now." 

Jeanne  bent  to  him.     "  Desmon',  watch  that 
water-seller.    He  has  been  paid  to  watch  you — ' 
An  instinct  of  loyalty  prevented  her  from  saying 

i8o 


A    CLEARED    FIELD 

by  whom  the  man  had  been  suborned.     "  Oh, 
take  care ! " 

"  I  know  all  about  him.  The  moment  I  got 
back  from  my  last  trip  he  made  so  many  in- 
quiries, and  was  so  officious  that  it  was  easy  to 
see  he  had  been  paid  to  spy.  You  needn't  worry 
about  me  at  all.  I  calculated  all  the  chances, 
and  knew  what  I  was  running  up  against  when  I 
took  this  job  on  first.  I've  lived  out  here  too 
long  to  imagine  that  business  can  be  done  on 
European  lines.  'Tisn't  that  the  country's  really 
lawless — not  in  the  same  way  as  the  Panhandle  of 
Texas,  or  the  wilds  of  Arizona  used  to  be,  any- 
way. But  things  are  not  so  strict  here  as  at 
home.  To  keep  perfect  order  you  want  perfect 
policemen,  who  won't  take  bribes,  and  an  admin- 
istration who  live  by  work,  not  graft.  Well, 
that's  of  no  account.  I'll  take  care,  and  see  that 
nothing  happens  to  me.  Isn't  that  your  father 
signaling  to  me?  For  the  present  then,  my 
dear." 

He  strolled  across  the  cafe  to  where  Courvois 
now  stood  in  the  doorway  of  his  office.  He  was 
surprised  to  find  the  latter  in  excellent  temper, 
and  disposed  to  be  very  friendly. 

"  Come  in,  monsieur,  come  in.  I  wish  to  talk 
a  little  of  our  aiTair.  Even  you  will  admit  that  we 
do  not  advance.  You  have  your  claim,  and  I 
wish  to  negotiate.    What  hinders  us  ?  " 

i8i 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  Nothing  but  yourself  as  far  as  I  can  see," 
observed  Rourke,  following  him  into  the  sanc- 
tum, and  sitting  down,  with  his  hat  across  his 
knees,  "  devil  a  one  else." 

"  If  monsieur  will  have  it  so,  well — in  effect, 
time  passes,  and  nothing  is  done.  I  wish  to  have 
it  settled  soon.  The  obstacle  is  that  you  will  not 
give  me  proofs;  or  rather,  that  you  will  not  let 
me  see  this  claim  prior  to  purchasing  it." 

"  That's  so." 

"  Your  reason  being  that  once  the  situation 
of  the  claim  is  known  it  might  be  seized  by  some 
stranger." 

"  An  outsider,  anyway." 

"  An  outsider,  then."  Courvois  was  unwont- 
edly  patient.  "  This  because  you  are  not  the 
owner  of  the  land  upon  which  the  claim  is  located. 
Am  I  correct?  " 

Rourke  rubbed  his  hat  brim  thoughtfully. 
"  There  or  thereabouts." 

Courvois  smiled  suddenly.  "  Monsieur,  I  can 
arrange  that.  We  were  both  stupid  not  to  have 
thought  of  it  before." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  asked  Rourke  interestedly. 

Courvois  held  out  his  open  palm.  "  As  clear 
as  that :  you  must  go  to  the  Minister  of  Mines — 
or  get  in  communication  with  him — and  register 
your  claim.  That  will  cost  in  fees  perhaps  one 
hundred  pounds.    After  that  no  one  can  interfere 

182 


A    CLEARED    FIELD 

with  it,  and  you  will  be  able  to  show  it  to  me.  It 
is  wonderful  that  I  have  not  thought  of  that  be- 
fore.    Now,  I  see  how  easy  the  affair  becomes." 

"  You're  a  genius,"  said  Rourke,  "  but 
you've  forgotten  something." 

"  Forgotten,  me?  " 

Rourke  smiled  grimly.  "  Just  that.  You 
don't  take  into  account  the  little  idiosyncrasies  of 
the  present  administration." 

"  Mon  ami,"  said  Courvois  in  a  relieved  tone, 
"  I  have  not  forgotten  it.  I  have  merely  con- 
sidered that  one  minister  among  them  has  a  repu- 
tation for  the  strictest  honesty,  and  that  is  the 
Sefior  Doctor  Aranjuez,  the  Minister  of  Mines." 

Rourke  shrugged  impatiently.  "  Your  infor- 
mation's not  complete.  Aranjuez  is  all  right,  I 
grant  you.  He  would  give  you  a  square  deal  if 
you  dealt  direct  with  him.  But  I  think  you  must 
have  been  asleep  the  last  half  year,  or  else  you 
don't  hear  what  goes  on  in  Congress.  The  situ- 
ation's changed  since  you  got  word." 

"If  monsieur  will  inform  me  how?"  Cour- 
vois said  skeptically. 

"  Just  this.  In  the  last  sitting  there  was 
some  talk  of  ministers  being  overworked.  Old 
Francino  got  up — you  know  he's  the  head  and 
front  of  all  the  graft  in  the  country — yes,  he  got 
up,  and  talked  sympathetic.  He  said  that  the 
ministers  were  not  only  up  to  the  eyes  in  impor- 

183 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

tant  business,  but  also  worried  every  hour  of  the 
day  with  Httle  pettifogging  details,  and  routine 
matter  emanating  from  the  provinces.  They 
were  clogging  the  affairs  of  state,  he  said,  and 
must  make  an  effort  to  clear  the  ground.  With 
that  he  brought  in  a  kind  of  devolution  scheme, 
in  which  every  provincial  governor,  and  jcfe  po- 
litico, was  to  be  trusted  with  wider  powers  of 
administration." 

"  How  does  that  affect  us?  " 

"  Because  it  involves  old  Aranjuez  with  the 
rest  of  them.  At  that  time,  you  had  to  register 
mining  claims  at  the  central  bureau,  and  work  the 
whole  business  in  the  capital.  Now  that  is 
stopped.  If  I  was  to  register  my  claim  to-mor- 
row, I  would  have  to  do  it  here.  I  would  have 
to  disclose  the  whereabouts  of  the  claim  to  our 
incorruptible  jefe  politico,  Sefior  Oro.  Now  do 
you  see  what  I  mean?  Do  you  think  we  could 
put  him  off  with  anything  less  than  a  half  share? 
If  you  tried  to  push  it  through  without  greasing 
his  greedy  palm,  he'd  find  a  new  flaw  in  your 
title  every  day,  if  he  didn't  actually  seize  the  place 
in  the  name  of  the  Government." 

"  We  could  appeal " 

"  Yes,  we  could — and  get  arrested  on  some 
trumped-up  charge.  If  you've  a  mind  to  see  the 
inside  of  the  calabozo,  I  haven't." 

184 


A    CLEARED    FIELD 

Courvois  tore  at  his  hair :  "  These  scoun- 
drels!" 

Rourke  rose,  and  turned  to  the  door.  "  I'll 
call  in  again  to-morrow,  and  see  what  you  think 
of  closing  the  deal,"  he  said  quietly. 

But  Courvois  only  groaned. 


1 


CHAPTER    XIII 

MITAD    COLLABORATES 

"A  HE  shock  of  the  news  with  regard  to 
Smith,  received  at  first  by  Mitad  with  a 
feehng  almost  of  despair,  wore  off  grad- 
ually when  the  haciendero  began  to  reflect. 

He  had  grown  to  rely  upon  the  American  to 
provide  the  brains  of  the  partnership;  now 
thrown  back  upon  himself,  he  wondered  if  it 
might  not  be  possible  to  carry  out  the  plan  dur- 
ing the  enforced  absence  of  his  confederate.  He 
pondered  new  combinations,  but  without  finding, 
among  all  his  acquaintance,  a  good  substitute  for 
Smith,  save  and  except  the  cafe  proprietor. 
Courvois  was  clever.  He  had  impressed  that 
upon  Mitad  by  his  patronizing  attitude,  and  sen- 
tentious way  of  speaking;  easily  acquired  char- 
acteristics which  have  gained  many  a  man  a  rep- 
utation for  intense  mental  activity. 

Yet  this  prospective  partnership  would  have 
its  disadvantages.  Courvois  was  not  so  enter- 
prising as  Smith;  also  less  generous  in  his  deal- 
ings, more  parochial  in  his  outlook,  lacking  in  the 

1 86 


MITAD    COLLABORATES 

quality  of  decision  which  had  carried  the  Amer- 
ican's many  enterprises  to  a  successful  termina- 
tion. He  looked  too  long  at  a  thing  before  decid- 
ing upon  its  merits  or  demerits.  He  was,  in 
short,  less  a  business  man  than  a  man  of  busi- 
ness. 

Still,  the  decision  came  to  Mitad,  sitting  sulk- 
ily under  the  veranda  of  his  house,  to  admit 
Courvois  to  his  counsels,  and  to  volunteer  a  share 
in  the  profits  of  that  dishonorable  enterprise.  He 
pondered  the  method  best  adapted  for  the  intro- 
duction of  the  subject,  with  chest  thrown  out, 
rehearsing  a  look  of  concentrated  mentality, 
which  might  give  the  self-sufficient  Frenchman 
an  idea  of  the  magnificence  of  the  scheme.  I, 
Jose  Mitad !  that  should  be  the  attitude.  It  did  not 
occur  to  him  that  the  afifair  might  be  carried 
through  single-handed,  but  for  his  own  ignorant 
credulity.  The  story  of  the  dog,  now  backed  and 
confirmed  by  Smith's  mishap,  prevented  him  from 
venturing  on  the  pass.  Confronted  by  the  pow- 
ers of  darkness,  his  courage  failed ;  looking  round 
in  vain  for  the  support  of  an  avaricious  tempera- 
ment which  would  inevitably  have  driven  him  to 
face  greater  perils  at  the  hands  of  man,  He 
feared  only  that  which  lay  outside  his  experience. 

He  got  up,  and  began  to  pace  to  and  fro.    He 
was  thinking  that  there  was  no  necessity  to  men- 
tion Smith's  name  in  connection  with  the  afifair. 
13  187 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

After  all,  the  American  had  been  put  out  of  ac- 
tion. It  was  possible  that  the  injury  might  re- 
sult fatally;  failing  that,  he  might  never  recover 
his  sanity.  Mitad,  quite  dispassionately,  and 
without  callous  intention,  hoped  rather  that  it 
might  be  so.  He  could  figure  as  the  discoverer  of 
Rourke's  secret,  the  inspirer  of  the  plan  for  its 
arbitrary  acquisition. 

That  evening  he  lounged  in  the  little  office  of 
the  Cafe  Fleur  de  Lys,  sitting  well  down  in  a 
chair,  his  knees  forming  a  pinnacle  upon  which 
his  sombrero  rocked.  Courvois  sat  before  his 
desk,  a  stiff  figure,  beady  of  eye,  scornful  of  lip, 
contemplating  this  swollen  frog  which  thought 
itself  a  bull.  Mitad  had  not  given  out  three  sen- 
tences of  his  scheme  before  Courvois  had  it  out- 
lined in  his  mind.  He  had  already  decided  to 
restrain  surprise,  to  assure  the  simple  haciendero 
that  he  himself  had  been  considering  a  similar 
plan.  He  was  not  to  be  rushed.  Mitad  would 
invite  him  to  assist,  and  suggest  sharing  the 
plunder.  That  was  not  good  enough.  Simply 
not  good  enough.  He  did  not  favor  the  principle 
of  division,  when  money  was  concerned. 

His  gaze  began  to  dissipate  Mitad's  optimistic 
mood;  it  held  so  much  of  patient  contempt,  such 
a  wealth  of  patronizing  pity.  It  was  as  if  a  man 
of  the  world  watched,  with  indulgent  toleration, 
the  feeble  attempts  of  a  child  to  solve  a  problem. 

i88 


I 


MITAD    COLLABORATES 

It  had  the  effect  of  putting  the  haciendero  in  a 
subordinate  position,  relegating  him  to  an  ob- 
scurity which  was  wholly  deserved,  and  from 
which  he  had  only  this  moment  emerged.  Even 
the  furniture  of  the  room  seemed  to  accentuate 
the  contrast  between  them  from  a  commercial 
point  of  view.  The  desk,  with  its  pigeon-holes 
suggestive  of  massed  figures ;  the  tin  deed-boxes, 
used  for  files  of  papers,  the  calendar,  even,  that 
hinted  at  days  measured  out  and  accounted  for  on 
the  strictest  business  principles.  The  spirit  of 
braggadocio  oozed  away  from  Mitad,  as  water 
from  an  overdistended  bag. 

"  I  have  thought  of  it  all  before,"  said  Cour- 
vois,  with  an  assumed  air  of  intense  weariness. 
"  It  is  a  simple  idea,  one  that  springs  instantly  to 
the  mind.  One  understands,  however,  that  it  is 
not  brilliant." 

"  Not  brilliant !  "  Mitad's  sound  and  fury 
were  laughable  in  the  face  of  his  immovable  com- 
panion, w^ho  merely  raised  his  eyebrows,  and 
gave  a  new  cynical  turn  to  his  lip.  This  by-play 
told  with  Mitad,  who  had  not  the  wit  to  see  that 
it  was  afifected.     "  What  do  you  think  then?  " 

"  I  think  that  it  would  be  foolish  to  look  for 
this  needle  among  the  hay." 

"  Pouf !  but  think  of  it.    Is  the  Sefior  Smith  a 

fool  ?    He  went  to  the  pass,  and  the  dog  met " 

189 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  Not  to  any  pass,  but  to  Copar,"  Courvois 
corrected. 

"  To  the  pass,  I  tell  you." 

"  Gently,  monsieur ;  what  pass,  and  whose 
dog?" 

Mitad  saw  that  he  had  been  indiscreet.  He  bit 
his  lip,  and  relapsed  into  sulky  silence.  The  other 
passed  him  a  box  of  cigars,  and  sitting  back  in 
his  chair,  gave  himself  up  to  reflection. 

His  weighty  and  lengthened  silence  pro- 
duced the  expected  effect  in  Mitad.  It  suggested 
that  the  scheme  was  not  one  to  be  jumped  at,  or  re- 
ceived with  exaggerated  joy,  but  rather  a  doubt- 
ful expedient,  only  to  be  ventured  on  as  a  last 
resort.  It  hinted  plainly  that  Courvois  was  not 
ready  to  throw  himself  into  the  arms  of  the  in- 
itiator of  the  scheme,  expressing  rather  a  cer- 
tain passivity  of  attitude  intensely  annoying  to 
a  man  who  was  on  fire  to  advance. 

Courvois  smoked  on  imperturbably,  a  smile 
flickering  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth;  pro- 
vocative, mysterious,  and  chilling.  He  looked  up 
once  or  twice,  met  Mitad's  eyes,  dropped  his  own, 
and  drifted  into  a  reverie.  The  haciendero  was 
at  a  loss  what  to  make  of  him.  He  had  expected 
him  to  receive  him  with  open  arms,  to  accept 
gladly  such  a  minor  position  as  might  be  offered 
him,  along  with  a  fair  share  in  the  profits.  But 
the  Frenchman  exhibited  no  eagerness.    He  did 

190 


MITAD    COLLABORATES 

not  seem  even  to  approve  of  the  plan.  For  all 
Mitad  knew,  he  might  now  be  thinking  of  some 
alien  matter,  and  have  relegated  the  mining  busi- 
ness to  the  upper  attics  of  his  mind. 

Mitad's  sombrero  was  shot  suddenly  from  the 
pinnacle  of  his  knees  by  a  convulsive  and  despair- 
ing movement.  He  sat  upright,  gesticulating 
with  fervor :  "  Seiior,  it  is  the  chance  of  a  life- 
time!   The  claim  must  lie  on  that  pass " 

"  What  pass  ?  "  asked  Courvois  clearly. 

Mitad  almost  whimpered.  The  secret  was  to 
be  screwed  out  of  him.  Courvois  no  longer 
pretended  that  this  information  was  a  matter  of 
indifferent  interest.  His  eyes  said  plainly  that  he 
would  make  no  move  until  he  knew  all.  At  the 
same  time  he  was  discreet  enough  to  hide  his 
triumph. 

"  The  Pass  of  the  Dog,  which  lies  beyond 
Copar.  It  is  there  we  must  search  for  the  claim. 
The  Senor  Smith " 

"  Ah,"  said  Courvois  amusedly,  "  the  Senor 
Smith  discovered  it  then.  I  confess  I  thought  he 
had  had  his  finger  in  that  pie.  Muy  hien,  if  the 
Senor  Smith  says  it  is  on  the  pass,  I  am  ready  to 
believe  him.  You  also  believe  him,  yet  you  come 
to  me " 

"  There  is  a  story — they  say  a  phantom  dog 
haunts  the  place,"  said  Mitad. 

191 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  And  it  is  this  dog  which  you  would  have  me 
exorcise  ?  " 

"  Sefior,  who  would  face  this  evil  thing?  " 

Courvois  leaned  forward  on  his  bureau,  and 
his  little  eyes  contracted  to  mere  pin-points  of 
light. 

"  Smith !  "  he  said  decisively. 

Mitad  started:  "  Then  he  must  have  met  this 
phantom.  That  would  account  for  his  illness, 
perhaps,  his  wound." 

Courvois  made  a  gesture  of  skepticism :  "  You 
can  believe  it  if  you  wish.  Me,  I  believe  nothing 
— until  I  see  it." 

Mitad  was  filled  with  new  hope :  "  That  is 
splendid.    You  will  go " 

"  You  must  be  mad.  Why  should  I  leave 
my  cafe  on  this  wild-goose  chase  ?  No,  we  must 
wait  until  the  Senor  Smith  recovers.  Then  we 
can  discuss  it  with  him.  If  we  are  successful  the 
profits  will  be  shared." 

"  But  I  shall  only  have  a  third  share  then." 

Courvois  laughed :  "  A  third  share  ?  Oh,  no, 
my  friend,  you  will  not  have  even  that.  I  shall 
be  frank.  In  this  matter  you  are  of  no  use.  You 
have  not  the  head  for  business,  you  are  afraid  to 
visit  the  claim,  because  of  some  absurd  dog. 
Smith  and  I  will  have  three-eighths  each,  and  you 
shall  have  two-eighths." 

192 


MITAD    COLLABORATES 

Mitad  grew  crimson.  "  You  are  a  robber !  " 
he  snarled. 

"  And  you,  monsieur,  are  an  imbecile !  "  said 
Courvois,  composedly. 

The  haciendero  got  up,  scowling:  "I  refuse 
to  deal  with  you." 

"  Then,"  said  Courvois  coldly,  "  we  shall  save 
your  share,  and  it  will  add  to  our  profits.  You 
play  your  cards  badly,  friend,  and  without  discre- 
tion. In  time  you  will  see  that  it  pays  best  to 
work  in  with  those  of  superior  address.  I  am 
quite  candid  with  you.  You  have  told  me  where 
the  claim  is  situated,  and,  if  I  wished,  I  could  find 
it  without  your  assistance.  You  see?  However, 
I  am  willing  to  share  with  you  in  the  proportion 
I  mentioned." 

Mitad  was  too  angry  to  speak.  He  glared  at 
Courvois  for  a  full  minute,  in  silence,  then 
slammed  on  his  sombrero,  and  stalked  to  the  door 
leading  out  into  the  cafe.  He  might  have  com- 
promised, in  a  grumbling  spirit,  have  accepted  a 
proposal,  couched  in  terms  less  magnificently  in- 
solent. But  here  it  was  unthinkable.  Phrases 
hung  cloudily  in  his  mind,  "  No  use  to  anyone," 
"  You  have  not  the  head  for  business,"  "  You  are 
afraid — "  Courvois'  calmness  added  to  the  point 
and  impertinence  of  these  contemptuous  words. 
The  fellow  wanted  to  filch  his  brains. 

He  found  himself  in  the  cafe,  amid  a  babble 

193 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

of  surrounding  talk,  a  clinking  of  wineglasses, 
clatter  of  coffee  cups,  the  gurgling  of  some  man- 
nerless habitue  drawing  some  drab-colored  bev- 
erage noisily  through  a  straw.  He  was  suffi- 
ciently angry  to  show  the  red  flag  of  temper,  and 
this  combined  with  a  stamping  tread,  and  the 
impatient  clatter  of  spurs,  drew  upon  him  a  vol- 
ley of  inquisitive  glances. 

Smith  had  failed  him;  Courvois  had  treated 
him  with  contempt.  A  thought  of  the  treasure, 
almost  within  his  reach,  drew  his  mind  presently 
from  the  contemplation  of  his  own  wrongs.  He 
would  have  it  3^et.  Each  one  of  the  trio  had  de- 
termined to  steal  Rourke's  claim ;  he  himself  was 
precluded  from  taking  any  active  steps  by  a  su- 
perstitious belief  in  a  demoniac  guardian  of  the 
pass.  Courvois  would  only  treat  with  him  on 
inequitable  terms.  He  had  tried  to  work  upon 
avarice ;  was  it  too  late  to  appeal  to  gratitude  ? 

Smith  was  out  of  the  way ;  but  Rourke  might 
be  warned  of  the  traps  which  were  laid  for  him ; 
he  might,  on  the  strength  of  this,  offer  to  give 
Mitad  a  share  in  the  profits  of  the  mine.  Some 
hours  of  cool  reflection  would  inevitably  have 
shown  him  that  Courvois  was  his  best  ally.  At 
least  there  would  be  a  two-eighth's  share.  The 
Frenchman's  shameless  confession  had  worked 
him  into  a  passion.  He  wanted  money — money 
first ;  but  in  hopes  of  that  he  was  prepared  to  be- 

194 


MITAD    COLLABORATES 

tray  anything,  anyone.  Yes,  he  would  go  to  see 
Rourke. 

The  sun  was  dedining,  and  the  shadows  from 
the  houses  drew  out  across  the  roadway,  when 
Mitad  turned  into  the  Calle  Passado,  and  made 
his  way  to  the  house  of  the  water-seller,  where 
Rourke  lodged.  He  was  admitted  at  once,  and 
shown  into  a  large,  cool  room,  in  which  Rourke 
sat  writing.  The  latter  greeted  him  with  a  nod, 
and  methodically  put  away  pen  and  paper. 

"  A  thousand  pardons  for  intruding  on  you, 
senor.  If  it  were  not  that  I  hope  to  serve  your 
Honor's  interests  by  this  visit,  I  should  not  be 
here." 

"  Thanks.  That's  kind  of  you.  Sit  down, 
senor,  and  make  yourself  at  ease.  Excuse  the 
furniture  of  this  rather  miserable  room,  by  the 
way,  and  forgive  my  dishonorable  self  for 
neglecting  to  prepare  for  your  honored  appear- 
ance." 

Even  to  Mitad,  this  seemed  like  sarcasm.  He 
felt  uncomfortable. 

"  I  will  be  brief,"  he  explained,  somewhat 
apologetically,  *'  for  between  men  like  you  and 
me,  seiior,  there  is  no  need  for  much  talk.  I 
come,  then,  about  the  claim " 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  cried  Rourke,  appearing  inter- 
ested.    "  That'll  do  to  start  with.     You  come 

195 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

about  the  claim — mine,  I  presume.  Are  you  act- 
ing as  agent,  or  for  yourself?  " 

"  For  myself,  senor,  and  for  you." 

Rourke  bowed.  "  You  burden  me  with  obli- 
gations. I  was  not  aware  that  my  affairs  had 
been  so  widely  canvassed.  Let  me  hear  what  you 
have  to  say." 

"It  is  this:  it  has  become  known  to  a  small 
number  that  you  possess  an  undeveloped  mining 
claim.  The  persons  in  question  do  not  desire  to 
pay  you  for  that.  They  prefer  to  seize  the  claim, 
register  it  in  their  joint  names,  and  work  it  for 
their  own  profit." 

"  Even  when  they  don't  know  where  it  lies  ?  " 

"  They  do  know,  sefior," 

Rourke  appeared  to  be  startled:  ''Oh,  do 
they !  I  suppose  you  are  referring  to  the  Seiiores 
Smith  and  Courvois  ?  " 

"  To  those  sefiores  indeed." 

Rourke  told  himself  that  Mitad's  coming  to 
him  could  only  be  the  result  of  a  quarrel  with 
Courvois.  The  haciendero  evidently  imagined 
that  he  had  succeeded  in  locating  the  claim. 
Courvois  had  pumped  him,  and  learned  all  he 
knew.  But  Mitad  had  failed  to  secure  a  partner- 
ship on  equitable  terms.  It  was  quite  easy  to  see 
that ;  obvious  that  Mitad,  having  lost  Smith,  and 
failed  with  Courvois,  hoped  to  ingratiate  himself 

196 


I 


MITAD    COLLABORATES 

with  the  lucky  owner  of  the  claim.  Rourke 
smiled  secretly,  but  looked  grave. 

"  How  did  these  seiiores  discover  the  situation 
of  the  claim?  " 

Mitad  showed  unexpected  cunning.  He  told 
a  half  truth:  "  Seiior,  it  was  in  this  way — the 
Senor  Smith  came  to  me.  He  seemed  to  have 
some  grudge  against  you.  Knowing  that  I  some- 
-times  have  occasion  to  ride  toward  the  moun- 
tains, he  asked  me,  when  next  I  went  there,  to 
inquire  as  to  the  seller  of  a  skewbald  mare — rid- 
den by  your  Honor,  as  everyone  knows.  I  made 
inquiries  at  Copar,  and  returned  with  the  infor- 
mation I  sought.  You  had  told  the  senor 
Courvois  that  you  first  came  across  the  moun- 
tains. From  Copar  there  are  three  passes.  Two 
are  much  frequented,  and,  therefore,  out  of  the 
question.  The  third  is  the  Pass  of  the  Dog.  Ow- 
ing to  this  latter  having  been  deserted  by  the 
arrieros,  the  Seiior  Smith  believed  that  it  hid  the 
secret  of  your  claim.  You  will  notice  that  he  was 
recently  found  wounded  upon  the  mountains  near 
Copar." 

Rourke  nodded,  and  looked  thoughtful.  He 
did  not  ask  Mitad  what  connection  there  was  be- 
tween the  inquiries  regarding  a  mare  and  the 
discovery  of  a  mining  claim ;  nor  did  he  ask  him 
why  Smith  and  Courvois  were  working  together, 

197 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

nor  why  they  had  selected  a  haciendero  for  their 
confidant  in  such  an  important  affair.  He  re- 
flected that  he  had  enough  on  his  hands  without 
mentioning  Mitad.  Courvois  would  follow  the 
trail  closely;  Smith  might  recover,  and  again 
bend  his  acute  mind  to  the  solution  of  the  prob- 
lem. Mitad  must  be  soothed,  conciliated,  si- 
lenced. Money  would  do  it — or  the  hope  of  fu- 
ture gain.  He  must  pretend  to  be  grateful  for 
the  unnecessary  warning,  and  alarmed  at  the 
prospect  of  his  claim  being  discovered.  Then 
an  inspiration  came  to  him, 

"  Seiior,  I  am  immensely  grateful  for  your 
visit.  Now  that  I  know  those  scoundrels  wish  to 
rob  me,  I  shall  be  on  my  guard.  In  the  present 
instance  they  have  been  deluded,  but  in  the  future 
they  may  guess  more  truly." 

Mitad  was  convulsed  with  mirth.  "  Truly 
that  is  wonderful !  I  laugh  again  to  think  of  the 
wise  Courvois  thinking  that  he  has  the  silver  al- 
ready within  his  grasp.  I  was  right.  I  told  the 
Seiior  Smith  that  no  one  would  venture  upon 
that  pass." 

"  The  foolish  man  thinks  his  two  eyes  are  as 
a  thousand,"  said  Rourke,  sententiously.  "  I 
have  no  claim  there.  If  it  had  been  upon  those 
mountains,  is  it  likely  that  I  should  have  told 
Courvois  which  way  I  had  come  to  Santola? 
Wait!    The  Sefior  Smith  is  a  clever  man." 

198 


MITAD    COLLABORATES 

"  I  had  thought  so,"  Mitad  assented  doubt- 
fully. 

"  He  is.  A  man  of  great  acuteness.  It  is 
possible  that  he  threw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Frenchman." 

Mitad's  jaw  fell:  "And  knows  where  the 
claim  is?  Mother  of  Heaven!  But  then,  he  is 
sick." 

Rourke  made  an  impatient  gesture :  "  Who 
knows  that?  What  was  to  prevent  him  from 
having  the  rumor  put  about  that  he  had  been 
wounded?  Even  now — "  He  got  up,  and  began 
to  pace  the  room  with  every  appearance  of  agi- 
tation, muttering  to  himself,  and  striking  one 
hand  into  the  palm  of  the  other.  Mitad  watched 
him  with  sympathy,  not  unmixed  with  dismay. 

"  It  is  such  a  thing  as  the  man  would  do,"  he 
cried.  "  W  hy  was  he  not  brought  home  here  ?  In 
Copar  there  is  no  place  where  a  sick  man  could 
be  nursed — no  doctor  who  could  attend  him. 
You  are  right — it  is  a  plot !  " 

Rourke  appeared  to  pull  himself  together. 
"  After  all,  he  could  not  know  the  exact  spot," 
he  said,  half  aloud.  "  He  could  only  have  gen- 
eral information." 

"What  to  do?"  Mitad  stared  about  him 
helplessly. 

Rourke  walked  over  and  laid  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

199 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  Sefior  Mitad,  you  have  done  me  a  service. 
I  desire  that  you  should  do  me  another." 

"  I  am  at  your  disposition." 

"  Good.  I  want  your  advice.  I  cannot  go  to 
my  claim,  lest  I  might  be  followed  and  watched. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  cannot  let  that  bribon, 
Smith,  secure  it  in  my  absence.  I  must  have 
some  one  to  help  me.  Look,  if  you  can  safely 
leave  your  hacienda,  and  hasten  to  this  claim,  I 
promise  you  one  half  of  any  silver  that  comes  out 
of  it.  I  will  put  that  in  writing,  and  give  you  a 
rough  sketch,  showing  the  surrounding  country. 
Perhaps,  however,  you  cannot  go.  It  is  within 
the  borders  of  Peru." 

Mitad  was  absolutely  on  tiptoe.  To  be  con- 
sulted, trusted,  and  taken  in  partnership  by  this 
potential  millionaire,  after  Courvois  had  assured 
him  that  he  was  good  for  nothing,  that  was  in- 
deed balm  to  his  wounded  soul,  flattering  unction 
to  his  scarred  vanity.  He  would  go,  not  to  Peru 
only,  but  to  Patagonia  if  need  be. 

"  No  es  nada,  it  is  nothing,"  he  declared.  "  A 
step,  perhaps.  I  am  indeed  willing  to  serve  you 
in  this  matter,  if  you  will  give  me  the  writing." 

Rourke  sat  down  promptly,  and  wrote  the 
promise  to  pay  Senor  Mitad  half  the  value  of  the 
silver  which  might  be  found,  hereafter,  on  or  in 
that  portion  of  ground  indicated  on  sketch 
appended  to  the  paper.     Then  he  procured  a 

200 


MITAD    COLLABORATES 

piece  of  thick  paper,  and  motioned  to  Mitad  to 
stand  and  look  over  his  shoulder. 

He  drew  rapidly,  talking  as  he  worked: 
"  Here,  you  see,  is  the  town  of  Copetzl — you  have 
heard  of  it.  From  that,  you  follow  this  line  for 
sixty  miles,  till  you  come  to  some  foothills,  facing 
northwest.  Now  I  draw  a  half-circle,  indicating 
the  rough  shape  of  a  valley.  You  will  recognize 
this  by  an  irregular  pile  of  rocks,  something  in 
the  shape  of  a  man's  head,  which  stands  up  at  the 
left  hand  tip  of  the  half-moon  of  hills " 

"  Surrounding  the  valley?  " 

"  Yes,  the  tip  of  the  half-moon,  half  encircling 
the  valley.  Now,  I  mark  these  rocks  with  a  cross, 
for  you  must  climb  them,  and  descend  into  a 
slight  depression  on  the  other  side.  Do  you  fol- 
low me?  In  any  case  I  will  write  directions  on 
this  sketch." 

He  worked  rapidly,  and  soon  had  the  rough 
map  completed :  "  There  you  are.  Here  is  a  pin. 
Put  sketch  and  paper  together,  so  that  you  may 
not  lose  them.  The  depression  marked  is  the 
place  I  send  you  to  seek." 

"  A  thousand  thanks,"  cried  Mitad,  stowing 
paper  and  map  away,  and  folding  his  poncho 
tightly  above  them.    "  I  will  go  at  once " 

Rourke  was  unfolding  another  sheet  of  paper : 
"  Just  a  moment.  I  have  given  you  a  promise. 
Sit  down  here,  and  write  that  you  will  expect  no 

20 1 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

more  than  one  half  of  the  silver  which  may  be 
found." 

This  was  businesslike,  and  appealed  to  Mitad. 
He  acquiesced  with  pleasure,  and  presently  con- 
templated with  pride  the  script  he  had  produced : 
"  Then  that  is  all.    I  shall  start  at  once." 

"  You  must  not  leave  by  the  street,"  said 
Rourke,  rising.  "  Courvois  may  have  spies.  The 
water-seller  is  away,  and  I  can  let  you  out  at  the 
rear.  In  an  affair  of  this  kind  one  must  be  cau- 
tious." 

Mitad  went  out.  He  was  a  bigger  man  than 
an  hour  ago.  He  was  conscious  of  acute  mental- 
ity, of  businesslike  proclivities,  of  his  assured  and 
invincible  position  in  the  world. 

Rourke  went  back  to  his  room,  and,  seating 
himself,  laughed  consumedly,  grew  grave  again, 
and  frowned. 

"  Desmond  dear,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  if  you 
sow  enough  lies,  some  of  them  are  bound  to  grow 
big  enough  to  get  in  your  way.  It's  a  curious 
thing,  too,  that  I'm  an  honest  man  by  tempera- 
ment." 


CHAPTER   XIV 

A   CLEAN   SLATE 

SMITH  was  suffering  from  slight  concussion 
of  the  brain.  The  doctor,  who  had  been 
brought  by  train  to  see  him,  explained  as 
much  to  Seguien;  explaining  further,  in  a  pomp- 
ous way,  what  might  have  happened  if  the  blow 
had  taken  effect  a  little  higher  up,  or  a  little  lower 
down,  the  skull.  The  pulperia  keeper  was  fasci- 
nated by  the  long  and  scientific  words  he  used, 
though  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  did  not  un- 
derstand a  tithe  of  their  meaning.  He  nodded 
sagely,  and  agreed  that  the  doctor  had  spoken 
words  of  extreme  wisdom. 

The  latter,  however,  having  satisfied  himself 
by  a  show  of  knowledge,  descended  to  the  vulgar 
speech.  The  Americano  had  fallen  upon  his 
head;  the  said  head  had  come  in  contact  with  a 
rock,  not  so  violently  as  to  damage  irretrievably 
the  complex  mechanism  within.  In  a  few  days, 
therefore,  the  sefior  might  have  made  a  partial 
recovery.  If  he  had  a  good  constitution,  as  the 
14  203 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

doctor  saw  no  reason  to  doubt,  he  might  be  on 
his  legs  again  in  a  fortnight.  As  far  as  could  be 
seen,  the  blow  in  itself  was  not  sufficient  to  ac- 
count for  Smith's  present  condition.  The  man 
was  in  a  nervous  state,  probably  had  been,  pre- 
vious to  the  accident.  At  all  events,  the  case 
was  hopeful.  Careful  nursing  and  perfect  quiet 
would  work  wonders. 

Seguien  paid  his  fee.  Smith's  pocket  had  con- 
tained a  sum  of  three  hundred  dollars  in  twenty- 
dollar  bills.  From  that  were  abstracted  sums  due 
for  medical  assistance,  board,  lodging,  and  at- 
tendance. All  Americanos  were  liberal.  Se- 
guien did  not  affront  his  guest  by  charging  re- 
duced prices.  Smith  paid  him  again,  when  fully 
recovered,  but  this  latter  sum  he  took  to  be  a 
token  of  gratitude,  and  accepted  with  the  air  of  a 
man  not  unconscious  of  having  done  a  good 
work. 

The  doctor's  forecast  proved  correct.  The 
delirium  passed,  pulse  and  temperature  became 
normal,  and  the  weakness  of  body  was  van- 
quished by  plentiful  and  frequent  nourishment. 
Smith  was  his  own  man  again,  paler  and  thinner, 
perhaps,  but  able  to  eat,  sleep,  and  walk.  Only 
one  change  was  observable.  He  did  not  remem- 
ber what  had  happened  during  the  twelve  hours 
preceding  his  fall.  He  knew  that  he  had  been 
climbing  the  mountain,  and  was  aware  of  the 

204 


I 


A    CLEAN    SLATE 

purpose  of  his  going,  but  he  could  not  recollect 
how  he  had  spent  the  night,  or  what  had  brought 
him  down  the  track  toward  the  foothills.  He 
spent  many  hours  trying  to  think  it  over,  but 
without  effect.  He  had  climbed  up  the  mountain, 
and  he  had  fallen  down  somewhere.  That  was 
the  extent  of  his  experience. 

Save  for  his  periodical  dyspepsia,  Smith  was 
a  sound  man,  with  a  wiry  constitution.  Still,  he 
went  cautiously.  He  was,  at  heart,  anxious  to  be 
up  and  doing,  but  reason  told  him  that  he  must 
conserve  his  strength,  and  undergo  a  quiet  con- 
valescence prior  to  taking  up  once  more  the 
weight  of  business  responsibilities. 

**  Say,  sonny,"  he  said,  one  morning  to  Se- 
guien,  who  had  come  out  to  the  corridor  to  in- 
quire, "  how  long  now  have  I  been  sick?  Seems 
to  me  a  week  or  about." 

"  A  week,  seiior ! "  Seguien  threw  up  his 
hands  in  amazement.  It  had  just  occurred  to 
him  that  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  telling  the 
truth.  "  Ah,  I  understand.  The  sehor  had  not 
his  senses  for  a  long  time.    He  could  not  know.'- 

"  Darned  if  I  could !  "  said  Smith,  fretfully. 
'*  Am  not  I  asking  you  ?  How  long  have  I  been 
here?" 

'"  Almost  a  month,  sefior,"  said  Seguien 
promptly. 

"Oh,  quit!     That's  fool  talk." 
205 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  It  is  true,  senor,  as  I  call  all  the  saints  to 
witness." 

Smith  thought  it  over  quietly.  It  might  be 
true.  Of  course  the  fellow  would  like  to  run  up 
a  long  bill,  but  he  had  no  proof  of  that.  He  knew 
of  men  who  had  lain  unconscious  for  weeks. 
At  all  events  he  could  not  quarrel  with  the  good 
Samaritan  who  had  taken  him  in,  and  nursed 
him  back  to  health. 

His  memory  carried  him  back,  past  thai 
unaccounted  gap,  to  the  business  on  which  he 
had  been  engaged  at  the  time  of  his  accident. 
Had  he  not  been  on  a  tour  of  investigation,  en- 
gaged in  a  search  for  the  mining  claim  discovered 
by  Rourke  ?  Did  that  not  lie  amid  the  mountains, 
on  some  pass — what  was  it?  The  Pass  of — Ah, 
The  Pass  of  the  Dog.  That  was  it.  His  thoughts 
were  broken  for  a  moment,  as  if  some  association 
of  ideas  linked  up  this  pass  with  some  experience 
of  his  own.  "  Mitad  afraid  " — there  was  a  hazy 
connection;  but  afraid  of  what?  Some  story  the 
fellow  had  told  him — some  superstition.  What 
was  it?  He  remembered  now.  It  was  a  tale  of 
a  dog  that  haunted  the  pass.    Of  course 

He  called  for  Seguien. 

The  man  came,  smiling,  "  Senor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sonny,  I  want  you.  Isn't  there  some 
yarn  to  do  with  the  gorge  up  above  there  ?  " 

"  Of  a  certainty.  A  dog,  your  Honor  knows, 
206 


I 


A    CLEAN    SLATE 

which  prowls  about  there  when  the  dark  has 
fallen " 

Smith  had  forgotten  his  own  experience.  He 
remembered  only  that  he  had  heard  something 
about  this  before  leaving  Santola :  "  Oh,  you 
Seguien !  I  shorely  believe  you  think  that  yarn's 
all  O.K.  Now,  look  here!  Wasn't  I  up  there?, 
I'm  a  bit  hazy  about  going,  but  I  know  I  started 
right  enough." 

"  You  were  at  least  on  the  track  to  it." 

"  Sure,  I  was  there,  some  time  before  that 
rock  handed  me  a  clip  on  the  head.  That  being 
so,  if  there  was  a  dog,  wouldn't  I  have  seen  it  or 
heard  it?" 

"  It  is  possible." 

"  It's  dead  certain.  I  don't  keep  my  eyes  in  a 
sling  when  I  go  out  walking.  Well,  I  didn't  see 
it.  Nary  a  hair."  He  moved  irritably.  "  It's  a 
kid's  tale,  that's  what." 

"  The  sefior  is  doubtless  right." 

Smith  turned  his  face  away,  and  fell  to  think- 
ing. Seguien,  seeing  that  his  services  were  no 
longer  required,  bowed,  and  turned  into  the 
house.  He  was  frankly  disappointed  at  the  shat- 
tering of  this,  his  most  cherished  illusion.  He 
had  come  out,  his  hair  properly  prepared  to  bris- 
tle, to  listen  to  an  account  of  the  Americano's  su- 
pernatural experience. 

Smith  was  telling  himself  that  much  might 
207 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

have  happened  in  the  month  which  was  said  to 
have  elapsed  since  his  accident.  As  he  grew 
stronger  he  had  almost  decided  to  pay  a  second 
visit  to  the  divide.  Now  he  saw  that,  in  the 
meantime,  Rourke  might  have  registered  his 
claim,  or  made  it  over  to  Courvois  who  would 
see  that  the  title  to  the  property  was  legally  se- 
cured. It  would  be  foolish  to  take  a  journey 
without  assuring  himself  that  he  would  be  re- 
paid for  his  trouble.  To  do  that,  it  was  neces- 
sary that  he  should  return  to  Santola. 

Three  days  later,  he  made  arrangements  for 
departure.  He  was  not  yet  quite  strong  enough 
to  ride,  but  Seguien  promised  to  secure  a  light 
cart,  with  a  pair  of  mules,  in  which  he  might 
travel  to  Pano.  At  the  latter  place,  he  hoped  to 
take  train  to  a  town  lying  some  two  hundred 
miles  from  Santola  to  the  south,  and  strike  the 
main  line  which  would  bring  him  within  twenty 
leagues  of  home.  He  had  sent  a  messenger,  in 
the  meantime,  to  bring  his  horse  from  the  house 
of  the  arriero,  with  whom  he  had  left  it  on  his 
outward  journey. 

He  left  Copar  amid  a  hail  of  fervent  fare- 
wells, and  in  the  sound  of  Seguien's  valedictory 
blessings.  The  mule  cart  proved  uncomfortable 
enough  as  it  traveled  over  the  rough  ground;  it 
would  have  been  intolerable  under  the  glaring 
sun,  but   for   a  canvas  hood  which   the  driver 

208 


A    CLEAN    SLATE 

rigged  up  for  him.  At  the  end  of  the  day  they 
were  still  many  miles  from  Pano,  and  had  to 
camp  out  in  the  cart,  under  a  soft  sky  aglow  with 
stars.  They  went  on  once  more  when  the  first 
light  gleamed  in  the  east,  and  made  Pano  about 
midday.  Here  Smith  paid  ofif  his  driver,  and 
made  arrangements  with  the  local  railway  official 
for  the  conveyance  of  his  horse  to  Santola. 

A  few  hours  later,  he  was  in  the  train  speed- 
ing eastward,  and  intent  on  his  new  plan  of  cam- 
paign. He  began  to  ask  himself  if  it  were  possi- 
ble that  Rourke  had  failed  with  Courvois. 
Things  seemed  to  point  that  way.  He  was  anx- 
ious to  sell  his  claim;  to  that  end  he  had  been 
negotiating  with  the  Frenchman  for  some  con- 
siderable time.  Courvois  was  an  avaricious  man, 
anxious  to  make  money,  and  to  make  it  as  quickly 
as  possible.  How  was  the  delay  to  be  accounted 
for?  Yes,  it  seemed  probable  that  Courvois  had 
refused  to  buy.  There  might  be  trouble  if  the 
claim  were  jumped.  Perhaps,  it  might  be  easier 
in  the  long  run  to  offer  a  thousand  pounds  down, 
and  complete  the  business  in  a  regular  way. 
Smith  was  not  a  man  to  throw  away  money,  but 
he  thought  this  idea  over  seriously. 

He  was  self-reliant  by  nature  and  training, 
but  it  occurred  to  him  that  a  useful  partner 
should  be  thought  of.  Mitad  was  frankly  an 
imbecile,  ignorant,  grasping,  and  self-assertive. 

209 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

He  must  be  stalled  off.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that, 
in  Santola,  one  often  thinks  of  Courvois.  He  is 
an  outstanding  figure,  shrewd,  rich,  and  obvious- 
ly capable.  Most  of  the  other  people  in  the  town 
are  nonentities.  Pure  Spanish — as  they  boast 
rather  hastily — or  merely  half-breed,  they  have 
the  Southern  indolence,  and  that  love  for  enter- 
tainment which  keeps  men  and  nations  in  an  ob- 
scure position.  Courvois  had  a  reputation  for 
honesty — a  comparative  virtue. 

Smith  had  no  illusions  as  to  the  man.  But  he 
valued  his  business  qualities,  and  wanted  a  part- 
ner, in  this  affair  at  least. 

If  Rourke  still  remained  in  Santola  it  would 
be  necessary  to  proceed  with  caution.  Possibly  it 
w^as  Smith's  arrogance;  perhaps,  Rourke's  face- 
tious manner,  but  the  American  did  not  rate  his 
opponent  very  high.  He  considered  him  little 
more  than  a  lucky  prospector,  passably  easy  to 
manage.  But  even  the  blindest  of  men  must  sus- 
pect something  afoot  if  he  saw  the  two  men,  to 
whom  he  had  confided  his  secret,  in  active  col- 
laboration. 

Smith  had  engaged  in  transactions  to  which 
the  present  one  was  not  to  be  compared  in  point 
of  magnitude.  But,  somehow,  his  blood  was  up : 
he  would  not  let  a  big  thing  beat  him,  much  less 
an  affair  of  this  kind.  Your  successful  man 
knows  that  defeat  lies  by  way  of  dropping  hot 

210 


A    CLEAN    SLATE 

irons.  In  the  old  days,  it  was  possible  to  bribe 
the  postal  officials  in  Santola,  and  that  system 
had  its  advantages.  But  with  the  new  man  in- 
stalled, such  a  course  was  obviously  impossible. 
At  least,  it  prevented  either  side  from  taking  an 
undue  advantage  of  its  rivals. 

Smith  thought  of  this,  when  it  became  clear 
to  him  that  he  must  make  some  slight  change  in 
his  plans.  Once  back  in  Santola,  and  it  would  be 
difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  communicate  with 
Courvois  without  attracting  Rourke's  attention. 
He  summed  up  the  situation  as  the  train  ran  east- 
ward, considering  its  possibilities,  maturing  his 
plans,  eliminating  such  details  as  he  thought 
unnecessary. 

The  idea  of  buying  the  claim  might  now  be 
set  aside.  Rourke  might  stand  out  for  the  price 
first  mentioned,  and  prolong  the  business  indefi- 
nitely. What  he  had  to  do  was  quite  clear.  Cour- 
vois must  come  into  line,  and  keep  the  Irishman 
lingering  in  Santola  under  the  impression  that 
the  purchase  of  his  claim  was  being  seriously 
considered.  Smith  himself  must  pay  a  second 
visit  to  the  mountains,  ascend  to  the  Pass  of  the 
Dog,  and  finally  locate  the  silver-bearing  vein. 
When  that  point  was  settled,  the  Jefe  Politico  of 
Santola  must  be  approached,  and  the  question  of 
registration  arranged. 

Smith  did  not  regard  this  important  person- 

211 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

age  with  the  same  distrust  as  did  Courvois,  or, 
rather,  he  distrusted,  but  did  not  fear  him.  They 
had  dealt  together  in  several  little  matters  al- 
ready, and  remained  on  good  terms.  As  for 
Mitad,  time  would  show  the  best  way  of  dealing 
with  him. 

This  plan,  which  had  now  taken  definite  shape 
in  Smith's  mind,  made  it  necessary  that  he  should 
keep  clear  of  Santola  for  the  present.  The  town 
from  which  the  branch  line  ran  to  Pano,  was 
within  easy  reach.  Instead  of  changing  to  the 
main  line,  and  proceeding  home,  he  must  break 
his  journey  at  Coipo. 

He  smiled  at  the  simplicity  of  his  scheme,  and 
lighting  a  long,  green  cigar,  settled  himself  in  the 
corner  of  the  rather  uncomfortable  compartment. 
There  is  something  curiously  naif  in  the  success- 
ful business  man,  which  is  not  to  be  found  in  his 
unsuccessful  rival.  The  latter  is  armed  against 
all  contingencies;  rebuffs  have  hardened  him, 
defeats  have  made  him  suspicious,  failure  has 
resulted  in  imbuing  him  with  inconfidence.  The 
former's  path  has  been  so  flattering  to  his  soul, 
he  has  been  so  often  patted  on  the  back  for  his 
completed  achievements,  that  he  has  at  last 
learned  to  pat  himself.  He  is  so  assured  of  his 
own  mental  powers,  of  his  superior  equipment, 
his  penetrating  and  immense  acuteness,  that  he 

212 


A    CLEAN    SLATE 

becomes  ingenuous,  given  to  boasting,  invulner- 
able in  his  armor  of  conceit. 

Smith  was  like  that.  He  told  people  frankly 
that  no  living  man  had  got  the  better  of  him. 
He  studiously  refrained  from  touching  wood  as 
he  gave  utterance  to  this  pathetic  and  infantile 
boast. 

The  man  with  a  pachydermatous  sole  does  not 
admit  of  the  existence  of  a  stray  tin-tack. 

A  cynic  might  have  said  that  Smith  delighted 
in  Santola  as  in  a  kingdom  of  the  blind.  He 
loomed  large  there;  something  concrete,  capable, 
dominant,  in  a  world  of  shades.  He  suggested 
Wall  Street,  the  Stock  Exchange,  the  Paris 
Bourse,  to  the  minds  of  those  who  found  in  an 
obscure  financier  a  monstrous  demigod,  stalking 
triumphantly  through  the  world's  money  mar- 
kets. The  sailor  has  a  great  admiration  for  the 
tillers  of  the  soil ;  the  agriculturist  for  those  who 
go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships;  the  idealist  for  the 
realist.  There  is  something  intensely  romantic 
in  those  things  which  do  not  impinge  upon  our 
own  workaday  experience,  in  the  places  which 
we  have  never  seen. 

Smith  drank  in  every  drop  of  tacit  flattery, 
and  still  found  his  thirst  unslaked.  He  wanted 
people  to  say :  "  See  that  man — Smith  ?  Yes, 
that's   Smith.     The   cleverest   man   in    Santola. 

Yes,  sir,  that's  his  reputation.     Smith " 

213 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

He  was  dyspeptic  because  millionaires  are 
dyspeptic ;  his  affection  of  the  digestive  tract  was 
the  result  of  a  stern  determination  to  get  up  an 
atmosphere.  Ice  water,  and  a  predilection  for 
American  food,  had  done  the  rest.  He  had  been 
an  honest  man  to  start  with,  but  he  was  an  ad- 
mirer of  trusts.  They  bribed,  they  stole,  they 
used  all  powers,  legitimate  and  illegitimate,  to 
achieve  their  ends.  And  Smith  followed  them, 
with  the  sincerity  of  a  disciple,  and  the  ardor  of 
an  atheist  following  a  clerical  scandal. 

The  train  drew  up  at  last  at  the  station  of 
Coipo.  Smith  descended,  button-holed  an  official, 
and  imbibed  information.  Finally,  he  went  into 
the  town,  and  secured  a  room  at  an  hotel,  after 
giving  instructions  that  his  horse  might  be  sent 
on  to  Santola. 

He  made  it  his  first  duty  to  write  a  letter  to 
Courvois,  couched  in  friendly  terms.  In  it  the 
case  was  put  succinctly,  and  attractively.  There 
was  the  claim:  Courvois  could  not  deal  with  it 
alone;  he  himself  was  in  similar  plight.  In  the 
circumstances,  it  was  quite  obvious  that  a  part- 
nership was  essential.  Then  he  went  on  to  ex- 
plain the  role  for  which  he  had  cast  Courvois, 
ending  with  an  explicit  statement  with  regard  to 
division  of  profits. 

He  did  not  dwell  upon  the  ethical  side  of  the 
question.     He  imitated  his  models  with  almost 

214 


A    CLEAN    SLATE 

slavish  fidelity.  Business  is  business:  it  is  not 
philanthropy,  altruism,  or  benevolence ;  it  is  sim- 
ply business.  The  blessedness  of  the  phrase 
always  appealed  to  Smith. 

The  letter  was  duly  drafted,  and  committed  to 
the  post,  and  the  speculator  congratulated  him- 
self that  a  decisive  step  had  been  taken.  He  did 
not  expect  to  receive  a  righteous  protest  from 
Courvois. 


CHAPTER   XV 

LOVE   SHATTERS   AN    ILLUSION 

ROURKE  had  no  longer  need  to  tell  him- 
self that  he  was  in  love.  The  fact  was 
palpable,  evident,  assured  by  the  changes 
the  passion  had  worked  in  his  moral  outlook, 
proved  by  an  increasing  sense  of  unworthincss,  a 
growing  desire  to  eliminate  all  those  elements  in 
him  which  warred  with  the  finer  sensibilities. 

For  the  first  time,  he  studied  his  actions  from 
the  detached  viewpoint  of  an  impartial  observer, 
without  seeking  to  hide  or  extenuate  the  nature 
of  the  object  which  had  brought  him  to  Santola. 
In  this  new  light  he  saw  himself  stripped  of 
romantic  motives,  unsupported  by  the  subtle 
sophistries  which  had  enabled  him  formerly  to 
convince  himself  that  under  certain  conditions 
black  might  be  considered  white.  He  no  longer 
asked  if  it  were  true  that  the  end  justified  the 
means,  if  a  good  motive  covered  and  excused  an 
unworthy  action.  Every  time  that  he  talked  with 
Jeanne,  and  realized  what  she  had  given  him, 

2x6 


LOVE    SHATTERS    AN    ILLUSION 

he  saw  more  clearly  that,  from  an  ethical  point 
of  view,  his  position  was  untenable. 

Brutal  truths  are  rarely  dispensed  to  oneself, 
but  Rourke  was  frank.  He  had  come  to  Santola 
with  the  plain  purpose  of  swindling  Courvois. 
There  was  no  other  word  for  it;  no  euphemism 
which  fitted  the  situation.  Yet,  even  now, 
ashamed  as  he  felt,  it  was  difficult  for  him  not  to 
feel  gratified  that  he  had  succeeded  in  bluffing 
two  such  competent  knaves  as  Courvois  and 
Smith.  He  had  enjoyed  the  battle  of  wits,  had 
been  stimulated  by  the  contest. 

He  had  no  mining  claim ;  the  nuggets  he  had 
given  Courvois  had  been  picked  up  by  him  on  the 
mountains.  Roquille,  the  prospector,  had  been 
there  before  him,  and  had  expressed  the  opinion 
that  the  silver  could  not  be  worked  at  a  profit. 
It  was  in  such  a  thin  and  broken  vein  that  min- 
ing operations  would  necessitate  an  equal  waste 
of  time  and  money.  It  was  true  that  Roquille 
had  at  one  time  possessed  a  rough  sketch,  given 
him  by  some  wandering  Indio,  showing  what 
professed  to  be  the  position  of  a  rich  vein  of  sil- 
ver. This  sketch  had  come  into  his  hands  just 
before  the  illness  which  had  terminated  fatally. 
But  Rourke  had  never  got  possession  of  it,  for 
the  prospector  was  an  intensely  suspicious  man, 
and  refused  even  to  show  it  to  his  partner.  After 
his  death,  it  had  vanished  strangely.    Rourke  had 

217 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

searched  for  it  everywhere,  but  without  result, 
Leon  had  ransacked  every  box,  every  article  of 
clothing  left  by  the  dead  man.  Dire  as  was  their 
necessity,  they  were  compelled  to  abandon  the 
search  for  the  rough  map  which  would  have  put 
the  potentialities  of  wealth  within  their  grasp. 

He  had  played  out  his  game  with  this  trump- 
less  hand.  Courvois  was  at  first  convinced  that 
the  mining  claim  might  be  only  an  imaginary 
one,  dangled  before  his  eyes  by  an  astute  swin- 
dler. But  gradually  he  had  been  led  on,  con- 
vinced against  his  will.  That  was  where  Smith 
had  been  brought  into  play.  Rourke's  visits  to 
the  American  had  been  so  secretly  made  as  to 
give  color  to  the  supposition  that  Smith  himself 
had  made  a  bid  for  the  claim.  Courvois  was 
spurred  by  avarice,  he  saw  a  chance  of  fortune 
slipping  from  his  grasp ;  assured  himself  that  the 
speculator  was  too  close-dealing  to  be  taken  in  by 
a  fraudulent  proposition.  At  this  point,  Rourke 
might  have  ruined  the  game  by  overeagerness. 
It  was  his  calmness,  the  inferences  to  be  drawn 
from  his  procrastinating  attitude,  which  had 
finally  confirmed  Courvois  in  the  belief  that  the 
claim  was  genuine. 

Smith,  too;  confident,  self-assured  Smith  had 
been  deceived.  He  had  suffered  himself  to  be 
made  a  tool,  to  be  used  as  a  decoy  to  lure  Cour- 
vois.   He  had  been  blufifed  into  competition  with 

218 


LOVE    SHATTERS    AN    ILLUSION 

the  Frenchman  for  the  possession  of  a  claim 
which  did  not  exist,  for  the  right  to  mine  min- 
erals which  were  sadly  to  seek.  Rourke  had  not 
the  slightest  intention  of  closing  with  any  offer 
he  might  make.  Courvois  was  his  game,  and  he 
refused  to  fly  at  any  other.  He  might  enjoy 
Smith's  discomfiture  while  refusing  to  profit  by  it. 

Now  that  was  all  done  with.  His  love  for 
Jeanne  had  made  him  see  things  in  a  new  light. 
He  could  not  go  to  her  with  soiled  hands.  At 
first  it  had  been  easy  to  stave  off  thought  with 
the  procrastinating  reflection  that  there  was  time 
enough  left  for  serious  consideration  of  his  posi- 
tion ;  but  the  passing  of  time  only  brought  the  evil 
hour  nearer.  There  would  come  a  moment  when 
he  must  leave  Santola,  or  accept  Courvois'  money 
for  the  right  to  mine  minerals  which  existed  only 
in  his  imagination.  Either  way,  Jeanne  was 
denied  to  him.  He  could  not  ask  her  to  marry 
him  on  the  proceeds  of  a  swindle,  the  victim  of 
which  had  been  her  father ;  he  could  not  take  her 
away,  so  long  as  he  had  no  means  of  keeping  her, 
and  no  home  to  which  he  could  invite  her.  Be- 
sides, the  money  was  not  for  him. 

In  a  moment  he  decided  to  have  done  with 
the  whole  affair.  He  had  wasted  time,  energy, 
brains.  All  that  did  not  matter  now.  There 
were  only  two  ways,  and  he  chose  the  right,  as 
he  had  formerly  chosen  the  wrong  one,  because 
15  219 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

he  thought  it  his  duty.  The  position  was  humiU- 
ating,  the  only  way  out  of  it  even  more  so.  He 
had  promised  to  give  Jeanne  some  explanation  as 
to  the  state  of  his  affairs,  and,  however  distaste- 
ful that  might  be,  he  meant  to  carry  out  his  prom- 
ise. It  takes  courage  to  tell  the  woman  you  love 
that  your  actions  have  not  been  above  reproach, 
that  your  motives  have  been  unworthy  ones,  your 
purposes  not  wholly  unselfish. 

Jeanne  would  forgive  him.  What  might  have 
been  a  source  of  consolation  was  here  an  added 
misery.  What  would  happen  to  him,  to  Leon,  to 
Jeanne  ?  The  right  way  was  the  way  of  renunci- 
ation. Without  money  he  could  not  marry,  with 
money — Courvois' — he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  think  of  it.  His  pride  refused  the  suggestion 
that  he  should  also  confess  to  Courvois.  The 
man  was  ungenerous. 

No,  he  must  tell  Jeanne  alone,  say  good-by  to 
her  as  tactfully  as  possible,  and  disappear.  He 
knew  that  Leon  would  not  reproach  him.  The 
mulatto  had  unexpected  depths  of  character,  he 
was  a  standing  proof  that  black  blood  does  not 
always  mean  coarse  blood.  Rourke  did  not 
think  of  Roquille,  who  had  died  of  fever,  mutter- 
ing of  "  Honest  Courvois."  He  tried  to  forget 
him,  and  the  promise  he  had  made  to  him.  It  lay 
behind  him  like  a  shadow,  ready  to  spring  to  the 
eye  when  he  looked  back,  to  reproach  him  for  an 

220 


LOVE    SHATTERS    AN    ILLUSION 

uncompleted  task.  But  the  thought  of  Jeanne 
was  hot  in  him;  her  beHef,  her  confidence,  her 
love. 

The  affair  was  done  with.  When  he  had 
gone,  he  could  see  Courvois  biting  his  nails  in  a 
fury  of  avaricious  desire,  asking  himself  why  he 
had  allowed  the  chance  of  a  fortune  to  slip  from 
his  hands.  He  could  see  Smith,  waxing  louder 
in  his  boasts  to  cover  the  sound  of  sarcastic  self- 
reproach  which  would  sing  in  his  brain.  These 
pictures  made  him  involuntarily  chuckle. 

But  he  thought  most  of  Jeanne.  He  could  not 
disguise  from  himself  the  fact  that  his  resolve  in- 
volved an  act  of  sacrifice,  the  last  act  of  sacrifice 
to  which  a  man  will  voluntarily  assent.  It  meant 
cutting  himself  off  from  her  and  bidding  farewell 
to  those  hopes  of  united  happiness  which  had  late- 
ly filled  his  mind  and  heart.  He  told  himself  that 
they  could  never  be  on  the  same  terms  again ;  not 
because  he  looked  for  hardness  in  her,  but  because 
he  had  risen  above  himself,  and  from  an  elevated 
standpoint  had  seen  how  little  worthy  he  was  of 
her  love. 

Love  involves  the  apotheosis  of  the  object 
loved,  and  the  same  act  which  elevates  one  side 
of  the  scale  must  inevitably  depress  the  other. 
Yet  he  had  cause  to  reason  that  Jeanne  had  more 
claim  to  his  respect  than  he  to  hers.  Bound  by  a 
promise  he  had  agreed  to  carry  through  an  act 

221 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

of  deception,  to  swindle — he  used  the  word  quite 
frankly  —  Monsieur  Courvois.  He  could  not 
come  to  Jeanne  with  that  knowledge  clearly  be- 
fore him. 

So  his  resolution  was  made,  and  only  the  fear 
remained  that  delay  might  weaken  and  emascu- 
late it.  He  was  aware  of  his  own  weakness  in 
this  matter;  afraid  that  dwelling  upon  what  he 
must  renounce  might  lead  him  to  further  pro- 
crastination. With  this  idea  in  his  mind,  he  left 
the  water-seller's  and  made  his  way  to  the  Cafe 
Fleur  de  Lys. 

He  passed  out,  from  the  cool  of  his  room,  to 
the  hot,  glaring  light  of  high  noon.  There  was 
no  shade  afforded  by  the  houses  to  either  hand, 
the  roadway  was  a  swathe  of  vibrating  golden 
dust,  the  pink,  white,  cream  and  drab  of  the 
stucco  fagades  had  been  mellowed  to  warm  tones, 
in  which  barred  window  openings  gaped  like 
thirsty  black  mouths  gasping  in  the  still  and  sul- 
try air.  Walking  slowly  up  the  Calle  San  Simon, 
he  turned  into  the  Calle  Huelva,  and  went  on, 
past  Smith's  shuttered  house,  to  the  plaza. 

The  Cafe  Fleur  de  Lys  stood  opposite  him, 
the  front  bedecked  with  stiff  symbolic  flowers, 
the  heavy  gilt  of  each  glowing  like  a  star.  The 
pendant  electrolier  focusing  the  sunrays  gleamed 
and  glistened  above  the  open  entrance,  through 
which  early  visitors  disappeared  in  search  of  their 

222 


LOVE    SHATTERS    AN    ILLUSION 

matutinal  liqueur  or  bock.  It  was  an  institution, 
this  cafe ;  the  native  of  Santola  vanishing  into  its 
welcoming  portal  was,  in  spirit,  a  boulevardier,  a 
man  of  the  world,  a  cosmopolitan,  if,  by  reason  of 
much  learning,  he  could  return  a  stumbling  reply 
to  Courvois'  smiling  bon  jour,  monsieur.  In 
small  towns  one  easily  acquires  a  reputation  for 
audacity,  for  chic. 

The  cafe  meant  more  to  Rourke.  It  was  his 
temple,  enshrining  a  divinity;  his  castle  of 
dreams.  Where  love  is,  Romance  is  never  dead. 
The  most  prosaic  web  of  life  is  shot  with  fancy, 
interwoven  with  the  golden  tissues  of  imagina- 
tion. 

Intuitively,  Rourke  knew  that  in  Jeanne's 
mind  he  stood  up  as  the  figure  of  the  ideal  lover, 
without  fear  or  reproach,  honest,  tender,  stain- 
less. The  woman's  tendency  to  idealize  an  ob- 
ject must  have  imbued  her  with  an  exaggerated 
respect  for  him.  His  confession  would  be  ren- 
dered more  difficult,  more  harassing  by  that 
knowledge.  The  clay  feet  of  one's  idol  may  be 
shown  us  by  accident,  they  are  rarely  exhibited 
by  the  idol,  ashamed  by  his  lack  of  homogeneity. 

Rourke  straightened  his  back,  stared  for  a 
moment  across  the  plaza;  then  walked  over,  and 
entered  the  Cafe  Fleur  de  Lys.  He  looked  for 
Jeanne,  but  saw,  instead,  Courvois  advancing 
with  an  eager  smile  to  meet  him. 

223 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  Bon  jour,  Monsieur  Rourke,  I  hope  you  find 
yourself  in  health.  Good.  We  will  talk,  then. 
I  am  anxious  to  discuss  again  that  affair  of  ours. 
Follow  me,  monsieur.  We  shall  take  coffee  in  the 
corridor  without.  I  allow  no  one  there  until  the 
evening,  and  we  shall  be  able  to  talk  without 
molestment — nan?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  see  Jeanne,"  said  Rourke,  as- 
suming a  stubborn  expression.  ''  I'll  talk  after, 
if  you  don't  mind." 

"  Ah,  la  paiivre  petite! "  cried  Courvois,  ex- 
tending his  open  palms.    "  She  is  malade — ill." 

"  Good  Heavens !  "  cried  Rourke,  quite  white. 
"111!" 

"  Not  serious,  monsieur,"  Courvois  reassured 
him.  *'  Ce  n'est  qu'une  migraine.  To-morrow 
she  will  be  well  again.  These  last  days  have  been 
so  hot." 

Rourke  stared  at  him  irritably.  Was  ever 
such  confounded  ill-luck?  The  procrastination 
which  he  had  denied  himself  was  now  forced  on 
him  by  circumstances.  On  this  day,  of  all  days, 
he  had  resolved  to  avoid  Courvois.  The  confes- 
sion once  made,  his  bridges  burned  behind  him, 
he  could  not  possibly  be  tempted  to  carry  out  his 
original  plan.  Since  he  was  only  human,  there 
came,  with  the  knowledge  that  his  confession 
had  been  postponed,  a  feeling  of  relief.  He 
blamed  himself  for  it,  but  felt  it  just  as  strongly, 

224 


LOVE    SHATTERS    AN    ILLUSION 

as  men  do  who  see  and  admire  the  best,  but  fol- 
low upon  lines  of  least  resistance. 

"  Look  here,  monsieur,"  he  began,  in  an  un- 
gracious tone,  "  I  don't  want  to  bother  you  with 
talk  about  our  affairs  to-day ;  and,  faith !  I  don't 
want  to  bother  myself.  Anyone  could  tell  you 
this  blazing  hot  weather's  no  good  for  business. 
A  siesta,  with  a  good  cigar,  and  something  cool 
to  drink  would  be  nearer  the  mark." 

Courvois  had  not  yet  received  Smith's  letter, 
and,  after  seesawing  for  days,  had  at  last  made 
up  his  mind  to  make  Rourke  an  offer  for  the 
claim :  "  Monsieur,  you  ask  little.  A  good  cigar 
and  a  cool  drink  are  easily  procured.  I  will  give 
orders  to  a  gargon;  and  now,  if  you  will  come 
with  me " 

Rourke  shrugged,  but  followed  him.  To- 
gether they  passed  through  the  swing  door,  and 
went  out  to  the  corridor  round  the  patio.  Two 
seats  were  already  placed  there,  facing  the  smil- 
ing effigy  of  France's  last  Bourbon.  Rourke  no- 
ticed that  Courvois  did  not  bow 

Courvois  was  rather  agitated.  He  mumbled 
at  his  lips,  as  he  sat  down,  and  his  small  eyes  were 
contracted  as  if  in  an  eft'ort  of  intense  concentra- 
tion. His  mobile  hands  were  restless,  made 
little  involuntary  movements,  pantomimed  un- 
guarded emotions.  He  rested  on  the  extreme 
edge  of  his  chair,  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  who 

225 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

may  feel  himself  at  any  moment  impelled  to 
spring  up,  to  express  some  strong  feeling  by  a 
violent  motion.  The  mere  thought  that  he  was 
about  to  suggest  something  which  involved  the 
payment  of  money,  was  sufficient  to  disorder  his 
nerves. 

Rourke  lay  back  in  his  chair,  and  contem- 
plated him  with  an  air  of  faint  disgust.  Cour- 
vois'  evident  uneasiness  put  him  more  at  his  ease. 
Still  he  was  not  disposed  to  open  the  subject,  and 
waited  till  a  waiter  had  brought  iced  drinks  and 
a  box  of  cigars,  before  making  an  observation. 

"  It's  a  bother — business." 

This  heresy  startled  Courvois.  It  seemed  to 
him  like  a  blow  struck  at  the  very  foundations  of 
society.  "  Perhaps,  monsieur  will  not  say  so 
when  I  put  my  offer  before  him,"  he  stammered. 

It  was  Rourke's  turn  to  feel  uneasy.  He  sat 
upright,  stared  awkwardly  at  his  companion,  and 
seeing  that  the  latter  was  observing  him  narrow- 
ly, reached  out  a  hand  for  his  glass.  He  did  not 
drink,  however,  but  held  the  glass  in  his  hand, 
and  began  to  talk  rapidly. 

"Faith!  Courvois,  I  enjoyed  the  best  joke 
the  other  day.  You  know  that  fool  fellow  Mitad, 
of  course — the  dullest  rogue  that  ever  made  five 
out  of  two  and  two.  Well,  somehow,  he  heard  of 
my  claim."  Courvois  started  up,  but  resumed  the 
edge  of  his  seat  quickly.     "  Yes,  he  came  to  hear 

226 


LOVE    SHATTERS    AN    ILLUSION 

of  it,  and  thought  he  ought  to  have  a  finger  in 
the  pie.  Well,  he  came  to  me  with  a  cock  and 
bull  story  about  you  or  Smith,  or  both  of  you 
together,  having  made  up  your  minds  to  do  me 
out  of  the  claim " 

'*  Monsieur !  "  Courvois  was  on  his  feet,  ges- 
ticulating violently.  "  It  is  impossible  that  even 
such  an  imbecile  should  have  said " 

**  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  Rourke  said,  smiling. 
"  He's  fool  enough  for  anything.  Of  course  I 
knew  that  you  and  Smith  weren't  on  good  terms, 
and  that,  anyway,  you  weren't  likely  to  let  Smith 
in,  if  you  could  help  it.  But  that's  neither  here 
nor  there.  The  fellow  did  come  with  the  yarn 
I've  told  you.  He  wanted  to  make  out  that  I  was 
in  need  of  a  warning.  He  was  to  prove  my  good 
angel,  let  me  know  what  you  two  were  up  to,  and 
help  me  to  preserve  my  precious  property." 

Courvois  restrained  an  outcry  at  this  proof  of 
Mitad's  treachery.  He  saw  that  it  would  be  bet- 
ter to  take  the  affair  as  a  joke.  He  did  not  know 
that  Rourke  was  only  talking  to  gain  time. 

*'  Did  ever  one  imagine  such  an  imbecile !  "  he 
exploded  in  a  harsh  cackle  of  laughter. 

"  Not  altogether  a  fool  either,"  said  Rourke, 
sipping  his  drink,  and  feeling  more  at  his  ease. 
"  It  wasn't  pure  benevolence  on  his  part.  Sure, 
he  thought  I'd  be  so  grateful  for  the  help  he 

227 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

gave  me  that  I'd  hand  out  some  good  cash  in 
return/' 

Courvois  selected  a  cigar,  and  lighted  it: 
"  That  is  good.  I  trust  that  you,  monsieur,  were 
properly  grateful." 

Rourke  leaned  back,  half  closing  his  eyes: 
"  Bedad !  I  was.  I  took  him  in  as  a  partner,  there 
and  then ;  and  him  as  merry  as  a  cricket  over  his 
good  fortune.  Faith!  I  gave  him  the  half  of  a 
mine  in  Peru;  at  least  half  the  silver  he  could 
take  out  of  a  mine  that  didn't  exist.  You  would 
have  laughed,  Courvois,  till  the  tears  ran  into 
your  collar.  I  made  a  sketch  for  him,  of  a  place 
that's  three  weeks  off  from  here;  and  didn't  the 
brave  boy  want  to  start  for  it  before  the  ink  was 
dry  on  the  map.  I'm  sore  at  heart  for  the  omad- 
haun!  when  I  think  of  him  hurrying  along  just 
this  moment,  and  not  within  telegraphing  dis- 
tance of  the  place  yet." 

Courvois  was  frankly  delighted :  "  Ah,  la,  la ! 
that  imbecile." 

"  Well,  he's  out  of  the  way  anyhow,  on  the 
wild-goose  chase  I  sent  him,"  said  Rourke,  drain- 
ing his  glass,  and  rising.  "  I  thought  you'd  like 
to  share  the  joke.  It's  been  tickling  me  ever  since. 
Good-by,  then,  for  the  present,  Courvois.  I 
must  be  getting  back  for  a  siesta,  for  it's  dog- 
tired  I  am  in  every  bone  of  me.  Give  my  sin- 
cerest  compliments  to  Mademoiselle  Jeanne,  and 

228 


II 


LOVE    SHATTERS    AN    ILLUSION 

assure  her  of  my  sympathy.  I  hope  she'll  be  all 
right  again  to-morrow." 

Courvois  jumped  up,  and  caught  him  excited- 
ly by  the  shoulder  of  his  poncho :  "  Monsieur, 
pray  be  seated.  We  have  not  yet  spoken  of  our 
affair." 

Rourke  rubbed  his  forehead  perplexedly: 
"Well,  what  is  it?" 

Courvois  almost  danced  before  him  in  his  ex- 
citement and  agitation.  "  Monsieur,  I  have  de- 
cided to  accept  your  terms,"  he  stuttered,  wring- 
ing his  hands.  "  The  money  to  be  paid  to  you 
immediately  the  contract  is  signed.  It  is  a  large 
sum,  monsieur,  but  I  am  willing  to  pay  it — quite 
willing.  The  affair  can  be  drawn  out  immedi- 
ately  " 

Rourke  looked  down  sullenly.  What  was  he 
to  say  to  this  offer  ?  Then  like  a  flash  the  thought 
came  to  him  that  one  loophole  of  retreat  still 
remained  open.  He  had  written  a  letter,  ad- 
dressed to  an  imaginary  company  in  the  United 
States,  asking  for  an  estimate  of  the  cost  of  in- 
stalling a  mining  plant.  This  letter  he  had  pur- 
posely dropped  in  the  cafe  to  confirm  Courvois 
in  the  belief  that  his  claim  was  genuine.  Pulling 
himself  together  he  faced  Courvois. 

"  Now  isn't  it  like  my  absent-mindedness ! 
Sure,  I've  decided  to  work  the  claim  myself.  I 
wrote  to  a  company " 

22Q 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

Courvois  was  quite  white.  He  stood  motion- 
less, silent. 

"  But  ril  talk  it  over  with  you  another  time," 
Rourke  said,  hurriedly.     "  Au  revoir " 

He  went  to  the  swing  door,  opened  it,  and 
passed  through.  He  walked  down  the  cafe  with 
long  strides.  The  temptation  was  strong.  He 
had  promised  Roquille 

He  turned  quickly,  halted  for  a  moment,  then 
walked  slowly  back.  Opening  the  door,  he  came 
upon  Courvois,  still  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
chair  into  which  he  had  sunk  a  few  moments 
before. 

"  I  was  just  thinking,"  he  stammered. 

"  Monsieur  has  changed  his  mind  ?  " 

Rourke  bit  his  lip.  He  hung  his  head,  and 
for  a  moment  remained  silent.  He  was  thinking 
of  Jeanne. 

"  I  was  just  thinking  that  it's  a  mortal  pity 
you  didn't  make  up  your  mind  sooner,"  he  said 
rapidly.     "  That's  all." 

He  swung  on  his  heel,  and  walked  away. 
The  door  swung  to  behind  him. 


i 


CHAPTER    XVI 

CONFESSION 

THERE  was  no  going  back  now.  Rourke 
had  made  a  statement  which  had  made 
a  partnership  with  Courvois  impossible, 
and,  by  so  doing,  had  cut  off  his  own  source  of 
suppHes.  It  occurred  to  him,  now  that  he  had 
time  to  consider  coolly  his  position  in  the  matter, 
how  necessary  it  was  that  he  should  refund  the 
sums  he  had  already  received  from  the  French- 
man. 

At  the  present  moment,  that  was  out  of  the 
question.  He  had  sent  the  major  portion  of  the 
last  fifty  pounds  to  Leon,  and  he  had  only  five 
pounds  in  hand.  The  money  must  be  earned 
somehow  in  the  future.  To  clear  his  conscience, 
restitution  was  essential.  He  put  that  aside 
temporarily.  It  only  blackened  the  outlook,  and 
complicated  an  already  tangled  skein. 

He  went  back  to  his  lodging  to  think  it  over. 
His  spirits  had  dropped,  he  felt  depressed  and 
uneasy.  The  light  and  warmth  of  the  day  jarred 
him,  as  he  went  through  the  streets.    He  felt  out 

231 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

of  the  picture,  a  somber  note,  discordant  and 
disquieting,  in  a  gay  scheme  of  harmonies. 
Storm,  darkness,  or  gloom,  would  have  been 
more  attuned  to  his  mood.  There  was  in  his 
mind  some  of  the  unreasoning  agitation  of  a  man 
sinking  and  drowning  in  a  calm  sea  beneath  a 
sky  of  tender  blue;  a  protest  against  a  sordid 
dying  in  an  atmosphere  of  serenity  and  peace. 
His  feelings  lay  so  deep  that  there  was  no  room 
for  the  superficial  emotion  of  self-pity.  He  did 
not  linger  so  much  upon  the  humiliation  of  con- 
fession as  upon  the  eternal  consequences  which 
must  inevitably  follow  upon  it. 

He  could  not  even  console  himself  with  the 
thought  that  honesty  was  a  paying  policy.  He 
stood  to  lose  Jeanne.  There  was  no  prize  to  be 
gained  by  acknowledging  himself  to  be  in  the 
wrong.  His  resolution  sprang  from  sentiment — 
a  sentiment  inspired  and  sanctified  by  love.  A 
repetition  to  himself  of  the  purity  of  his  motives, 
of  the  pain  and  reproach  he  had  determined  to 
endure,  would  have  vitiated  the  sacrifice.  He  did 
not  think  of  these  things,  they  were  outside  him, 
noteworthy  only  in  showing  the  thorny  path  he 
had  marked  out  for  himself. 

He  paid  of¥  the  water-seller  that  day,  a  pay- 
ment which  covered  a  week  in  advance.  He  did 
not  intend  to  spend  the  week  in  Santola.  When 
he  had  seen  Jeanne,  and  explained  his  position, 

232 


CONFESSION 

he  would  at  once  leave  the  town.  To  that  end,  he 
made  preparations,  paying  off  sundry  small  bills, 
seeing  that  his  saddle  bag  was  packed,  and  ar- 
ranging w^ith  a  man  who  had  undertaken  to  ride 
the  skewbald  some  distance  out  of  Santola,  and 
await  his  coming.  Courvois,  if  he  inquired,  need 
only  be  told  that  he  intended  visiting  one  of  the 
neighboring  villages.  Smith  was  out  of  the  way, 
and  l^litad  hunting  phantom  silver  heaven  only 
knew  where.  With  luck,  he  might  escape  obser- 
vation. 

It  was  late  on  the  following  day  when  he  came 
once  more  to  the  Cafe  Fleur  de  Lys,  and  keeping 
his  eyes  straight  before  him,  walked  slowly  to 
where  Jeanne,  a  trifle  pale  and  listless,  was 
standing.  Her  face  brightened  when  she  saw 
him,  a  delicate  color  came  into  her  cheeks;  her 
large,  fine  eyes  seemed  to  gather  light,  passion, 
a  subtle  shade  of  meaning,  when  she  saw  him  ap- 
proach her. 

"  Jeanne,"  he  said,  his  fingers  gripped  hers 
with  a  firm  pressure,  "  you  look  pale  rather.  The 
migraine,  of  course — I  was  frightened  yester- 
day." 

"  I  am  sorry.    It  was  nothing  really." 

He  leaned  nearer :  "  I'm  easily  scared — now. 
Since  I  got  you." 

She  nodded,  and  her  color  rose.  She  could 
understand  his  feelings.    Even  the  hint  of  illness 

233 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

startles  and  affrights,  when  one  is  in  love.  She 
was  rather  glad  of  the  knowledge,  though  she 
had  known  it  all  along.    It  was  an  admission. 

"  And  you " — she  searched  him  with  her 
eyes — "  you  look  distrait.  You  had  something  to 
tell  me.  I  remember  that  now.  It  has  disturbed 
you." 

He  made  a  sign  of  assent.  There  were  so 
many  things  that  had  disturbed  him,  but  this  most 
of  all.  He  stared  over  his  shoulder  down  the 
cafe.  "  I  can't  talk  here,"  he  said,  turning  to  her 
again.     "  This  place  is  distracting." 

She  had  felt  that,  too :  "  Mon  pcrc  has  gone 
out  for  a  little.  Yes,  we  must  talk  elsewhere." 
She  called  across  the  cafe,  "  Solar! " 

The  head  waiter,  a  thin,  weary-looking  man, 
came  to  her  hastily. 

"Seiiorita?" 

"  See  that  everything  is  in  order  while  I  am 
absent.     I  shall  return  in  half  an  hour." 

"  Si,  senorita,"  and  the  man  looked  covertly 
at  Rourke. 

Jeanne  led  the  way  to  the  door  opening  on  the 
patio  and  her  companion  followed  her  slowly. 
Outside  the  heat  of  the  day  had  passed,  and  the 
flames  of  the  sunset  already  smoldered  on  the 
horizon.  Against  their  dull  glow,  the  figure  of 
the  Bourbon  stood  up  dark  and  immobile. 
Rourke  looked  at  the  statue  very  steadily.    It  had 

234 


CONFESSION 

always  roused  his  curiosity  until  he  penetrated  its 
secret.  It  was  an  anachronism  here;  Courvois' 
worship  unreal.  Yet,  for  what  it  contained,  the 
statue  was  symbolic. 

"  That  thing  " — he  pointed  it  out  to  Jeanne, 
as  she  sank  into  a  chair  near  him — "  you  see  it. 
I  have  seen  Courvois  bow " 

She  shook  her  head,  not  in  denial,  but  in  in- 
comprehension :  "  Me,  I  do  not  understand. 
Mon  pere  talks  of  Saint  Louis.  What  does  it 
mean  ?  Was  not  that  man  dead  long  before  I — 
before  even  he,  was  born?     Quelle  betise!" 

Rourke  considered  her  words  thoughtfully: 
"  I  suppose  we  all  worship  something.  Courvois 
does " 

"My  father?" 

"  Your — father  ?    I  wonder " 


She  turned  a  puzzled  face  upon  him :  "  I 
don't  understand." 

"  Oh,  nothing — I  was  saying  that  we  all  wor- 
ship something.  We  have  all  got  some  kind  of 
god — tin,  or  clay,  or  gold,  if  it's  nothing  better. 
What  would  you  say  if  that  figure  of  a  king 
should  prove  to  be  hollow  ?  " 

"  An  allegory?  "  she  asked,  smiling. 

"  No,  plain  fact.  I'd  like  you  to  think  the 
best  of  me,  Jeanne." 

She  caught  at  his  hand,  and  held  it  for  a  mo- 
ment. He  raised  hers  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips : 
16  235 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  I  mean  it,  Jeanne.  Go  over,  tap  that  image, 
and  see.  Look  at  the  neck  of  him,  where  the 
edge  of  the  frill  comes." 

Jeanne  rose,  wonderingly,  crossed  to  the 
statue,  and  stood  staring  up.  She  tapped  on  it 
tentatively  with  her  knuckles,  and  it  gave  out  a 
hollow  sound.  She  hurried  quickly  back  to 
Rourke. 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  " 

"  Common  sense  and  observation,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "  It  didn't  seem  natural  somehow  for  a 
keen  business  man  like  your  fa — like  Courvois  to 
be  after  setting  up  a  graven  image  of  some  one 
he'd  never  seen.  Sure  there  isn't  as  much  senti- 
ment in  him  as  would  set  up  a  matrimonial 
agency,  and  that's  little  enough.  Knowing  the 
man,  as  I've  come  to  lately,  and  studying  that 
statue,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  nei- 
ther more  nor  less  than  a  blind — a  bluff.  More 
than  that,  Jeanne,  I  went  up  once  and  had  a  close 
look  at  the  thing.  It's  my  belief  that  the  head  of 
his  majesty  screws  off,  and  the  body  of  him's 
used  as  a  savings  bank." 

"  Impossible !  "  cried  Jeanne. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Sure  Courvois  is  as  scared 
of  letting  money  out  of  his  sight  as  a  child  with  a 
penny  for  sweets.  It's  my  belief  he  only  keeps  a 
small  drawing  account  at  the  Banco  Nacional. 
Three  or  four  hundred,  perhaps." 

236 


CONFESSION 

"  You  mean  that  he  is  a  miser  ?  "  she  asked, 
incredulously. 

''  Something  of  the  kind.  And  that's  why  I 
wanted  you  to  look  at  the  thing,  to  know  that  I 
knew  what  was  in  it — or  guessed.  Just  try 
Courvois  with  the  question :  '  What  is  it  you  keep 
in  that  statue  beyond  there  ?  ' — You'll  believe  me 
then,  and  perhaps  you  won't  think  so  hardly  of 
me,  when  I've  told  you  the  tale  that's  on  my 
tongue  this  moment." 

"  I  could  never  think  so  of  you,"  she  pro- 
tested. 

He  shook  his  head  doubtfully :  "  Maybe  not, 
maybe  not.  It's  the  power  of  faith  in  a  man  you 
women  have  that  keeps  us  all  from  the  gutter — 
or  worse.  There's  just  one  question,  though,  I'd 
like  to  ask  you." 

"  Dites  done:' 

""  Have  you  anything  3^ou  used  to  have  as  a 
child?  A  locket,  a  brooch,  an  ould  ring  or  the 
like?" 

Jeanne  was  puzzled.  Then  the  thought  struck 
her  that  he  might  want  a  keepsake:  "No,  but 
why " 

"  Oh,  nothing  " — his  face  darkened — "  it's 
just  a  little  theory  of  mine  I'm  anxious  to  prove. 
You're  sure  you've  nothing?" 

"  Certain." 

He  looked  away  from  her,  and  kept  silence 

237 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

for  a  short  time.  At  last,  "  Were  you  ever  in 
Paris,  Jeanne  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  laughed  a  little :  "  That  is  not  one  but 
two  questions  you  have  asked  me.  But  Paris — 
no,  I  have  never  been  in  Europe." 

"  I  thought  your  father  " — this  time  he  did 
not  say  "  Courvois  " — "  had  lived  in  France  in 
his  early  days." 

''  I  do  not  think  so,"  she  said  doubtfully. 
''  He  has  never  spoken  of  it  to  me." 

He  brightened  a  little :  "  Well,  never  mind 
that  now.  It's  a  confession  I  have  to  make  to 
you,  and  every  minute  that  I  put  it  off,  it's  more 
difficult  to  make  it.  For  I  love  you,  Jeanne;  the 
heart  of  me  is  in  you.  I  didn't  come  to  the  point 
of  telling  you  all  without  trying  to  shirk  it " 

Jeanne  grew  pale.  What  could  it  be  that  he 
was  going  to  say  to  her?  For  a  moment,  she 
almost  resolved  to  refuse  to  listen  to  his  confes- 
sion, to  accept  him  as  he  was,  to  forgive  him  for 
what  he  had  done.  She  laughed  nervously,  and 
laid  her  hand  on  his. 

"  Desmon',  is  it  necessary?  I  do  not  wish  to 
hear  it,  me.  I  love  you,  I  want  you.  What  could 
you  say  that  would  make  me  love  you  less  ?  Oh, 
nothing!     I  do  not  wish  to  hear " 

"  No,  bless  you,  nor  I  to  tell  you.  But  it's 
got  to  come  out.  It's  just  because  you've  such 
faith  in  me,  that  you've  put  me  in  a  place  where 

238 


CONFESSION 

I've  no  mortal  right  to  stand,  that  I  can't  play 
the  hypocrite  any  longer." 

Jeanne's  eyes  sank,  her  face  flushed.  "  Is  it 
— another  woman  ?  "  she  stammered. 

He  laughed  out :  ''  There  never  was  another 
woman  for  me.  If  it  was  that,  sure  I'd  be 
ashamed  to  face  you.  Perhaps,  indeed,  I'm  more 
of  a  blackguard  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  but  not  in 
yours,  Jeanne,  dear.     And  that's  the  truth." 

She  pressed  his  fingers  happily :  "  If  it  is 
not  that,  then  I  do  not  care  what  it  may  be." 

He  was  bending  over  to  look  into  her  eyes; 
her  arm  touched  his,  her  lips  were  near  his  own. 
She  drew  his  face  downward  with  a  gradual,  al- 
most imperceptible,  pressure,  and  her  hair  flut- 
tered for  a  moment  on  his  forehead.  He  did  not 
speak,  but  put  his  arms  under  her  shoulders,  and 
pressed  her  to  him  closely.  She  stayed  very 
quietly  in  his  arms,  tranced  in  the  love  and  long- 
ing of  their  first  kiss.  Her  eyes  closed,  the  lids 
tremulous  above  them,  under  the  intense  yearn- 
ing of  his  gaze.  They  came  to  themselves  again 
slowly. 

He  stood  up,  releasing  her,  and  panting  a 
little:  "It's  taken  the  heart  out  of  me." 

She  opened  her  eyes,  revealing  herself  to  him: 
"  You  need  never  tell  me." 

That  phrase  braced  him.  He  had  had  his 
moment  of  weakness,  and  it  had  passed :  "  Ah, 

239 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

but  I  must,  ril  sail  under  false  colors  no  longer. 
What  I  am  you'll  know." 

She  leaned  back,  with  a  look  of  weariness: 
"  I  listen." 

He  went  a  little  away  from  her,  and  leaned 
against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  corridor :  "  I 
came  here,  Jeanne,  on  a  bad  errand.  I  didn't 
come  here  as  an  honest  man,  with  something  to 
sell.    It's  fraud  I  was  bent  on." 

She  made  a  little  incredulous  gesture,  but  did 
not  speak. 

"  Yes,  fraud !  "  he  went  on,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  told  Courvois  I  had  discovered  a  valuable 
claim,  and  offered  to  sell  it  to  him  for  five  thou — 
for  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  thousand  francs. 
He  was  to  pay  the  money,  but  not  to  see  the 
claim,  or  hear  where  it  was  till  the  cash  was  in 
my  hands.  And  why — because  there  was  no 
claim.     I  had  never  discovered  one." 

Jeanne  raised  her  eyebrows :  "  You  do  not 
tell  me  that  mon  pere  was  willing  to  pay  you  for 
something  he  had  never  seen  ?  " 

"  Not  at  first,  you  may  be  sure.  But  I  jock- 
eyed him.  I  pretended  to  be  in  with  Smith — who 
is  a  real  judge  of  mining  property.  I  pretended 
that  I  was  offering  the  claim  elsewhere.  I  didn't 
tell  him  that  openly,  for  he  wouldn't  have  believed 
me.  I  did  it  behind  his  back,  knowing  that  he 
would  have  me  watched,  and  knowing  that  pres- 

240 


CONFESSION 

ently,  he'd  get  in  a  desperate  state,  thinking  the 
chance  was  sHpping  out  of  his  hands." 

"He  believed  then?" 

"  Yes,  or  nearly.  But  I  had  another  ace  up 
my  sleeve.  I  wrote  a  letter  to  some  imaginary 
mining  plant  manufacturers,  and  left  it  in  the 
cafe,  where  he  would  find  it.  Faith !  he  did ;  and 
steamed  it  open,  too.  It  seemed  hardly  likely 
that  I  would  write  about  a  mining  plant  if  I  had 
no  claim  to  work." 

Jeanne  looked  at  him  perplexedly.  Obvious- 
ly, she  believed  that  there  was  something  which 
he  had  not  told  her,  some  other  factor  in  the  situ- 
ation which  he  was  keeping  from  her.  She  did 
not  look  shocked,  or  angry,  only  puzzled:  ''I 
see.  He  believed  at  last."  Rourke  nodded: 
"  Yesterday,  he  offered  me  the  amount  I  had 
asked.  He  was  willing  to  pay.  He  thought  I 
had  a  claim  after  all.  I  think  it  was  Smith's  do- 
ings decided  him." 

''  Ah,  the  Americain " 

"  The  same.  He  thought  he'd  found  out 
where  the  claim  was,  and  started  off  to  jump  it 
— that  is,  to  take  possession  of  it,  and  register  it 
in  his  own  name.  Mitad  had  the  same  idea.  I 
think  they  were  working  into  one  another's 
hands.  Then  Smith  had  an  accident,  and  the  ar- 
rangement fell  through." 

241 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 
Jeanne  bit  her   lip :    "  And   my   father's  of- 


fer  " 

"  I  didn't  accept  it — I  couldn't.  I  told  him  I 
had  decided  to  carry  the  business  through  my- 
self." 

"  And  all  this  because  —  because  I  loved 
you?" 

"  Because  you'd  given  me  so  much,  that  I 
couldn't  give  you  the  little  I  had." 

Jeanne  clapped  her  hands:  "  It  is  only  a  jest 
after  all.  You  have  done  nothing.  You  never 
intended  to  do  anything  which  was  not  right." 

"  I  wish  I  could  make  myself  believe  that," 
he  said  slowly,  "  but  I  can't — I  can't." 

She  looked  at  him  more  anxiously:  "Oh,  it 
is  impossible.  When  I  asked  you  a  little  time 
since  about  the  money  which  would  come  from 
this  mine,  and  on  which  we  could  live,  you  talked 
as  if  there  would  be  no  money.  And  yet  you 
knew  then  that  mon  pere  would  be  willing  to  pay 
in  the  end.  No  cher  Desmon',  your  story  doesn't 
fit  in.  It  is  only  a  plaisanterie.  Because  if  you 
were  to  receive  all  that  money  from  mon  pere,  we 
might  be  married  immediately." 

He  smiled  dryly :  "  It's  true  all  the  same. 
Look  at  me !  d'ye  think  I'd  be  after  worrying  you 
for  nothing;  worrying  myself  for  nothing?  Is  it 
easy  work  for  me  calling  myself  a  swindler?  " 

She  was  thinking  deeply,  studying  the  situa- 
242 


CONFESSION 

tion  in  all  its  phases,  endeavoring,  as  women  will, 
to  mitigate,  to  minimize  the  blame  which  might 
be  attached  to  her  lover. 

"I  do  not  believe  it!"  she  cried.  "You 
would  not  take  money  from  anyone,  from  my 
father  or  any  other,  in  this  way.  If  it  is  true  that 
you  have  no  claim,  then  I  believe  that  some  one 
sent  you  to  Santola.  Come,  tell  me!  was  it  this 
mysterious  M.  Roquille,  who  was  the  friend  of 
my  father,  and  yet  not  his  friend?  Did  my  fa- 
ther owe  this  monsieur  money,  which  he  would 
not  pay  ?  "  She  laughed,  as  she  saw  Rourke 
start,  and  rising  from  her  chair,  came  to  stand 
beside  him. 

From  his  manner  it  was  obvious  that  her 
chance  shot  had  struck  somewhere  near  the 
target.  He  did  not  refuse  to  meet  her  eyes,  or 
attempt  to  deny  that  there  was  something  in  what 
she  had  said;  contenting  himself  with  smiling 
fairly  calmly. 

"  That  which  I  have  said  is,  perhaps,  not  all 
true,  but  it  is  partly  true,"  she  went  on,  more 
confidently.  "  But  I  knew — I  would  not  and 
could  not  believe  that  you  would  attempt  to  de- 
fraud mon  pere  to  put  money  in  your  own  pocket. 
But  why  then  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  Jeanne.  It  wouldn't  be  fair 
to  tell  you  as  things  stand.  There's  something 
in  the  way,  but  I  can't  explain  that  either." 

243 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  Your  theory,  perhaps,  heinf  "  she  said  mis- 
chievously, and  was  surprised  to  see  him  move 
involuntarily. 

"  It  might  be  that,  or  it  might  be  anything," 
he  said,  in  a  noncommittal  tone.  "  One  thing 
hangs  by  another." 

She  dropped  her  playful  tone,  and  spoke  more 
seriously:  "At  least,  you  will  not  let  me  believe 
that  you  desired  to  do  this  for  your  own  bene- 
fit?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  let  it  stay  at  that.  I  owe 
something  to  you,  a  little  to  myself.  I  told  you 
a  while  back  that  I  had  made  a  promise,  and 
didn't  see  my  way  to  back  out  of  it.  The  money, 
as  you  guessed,  was  not  for  myself.  I  am  to 
blame  chiefly  for  making  such  a  promise.  After 
all,  morals  aren't  a  question  of  circumstances,  or 
environment.  It  isn't  because  a  thing  suits  you 
that  it's  good ;  or  bad  because  it  doesn't  suit  you. 
I've  learned  that  lately — I  never  thought  of  these 
things  till  I  saw  you,  Jeanne." 

Jeanne  smiled  at  him :  "  Then,  Desmon',  it 
was  this  Monsieur  Roquille  who  sent  you?" 

"  He's  dead,  poor  fellow." 

"  Still " 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  really." 

"  Oh,  but  I  shall  find  out.  A  woman  always 
finds  out.  My  poor  Desmon',  you  come  to  tell  me 
you  are  a — what  do  you  say — ah,  a  rogue.    You 

244 


CONFESSION 

are  not  so  very  terrible  after  all.  Certainly,  it 
was  not  nice  to  think  of  playing  mon  pere  such  a 
trick,  but  then  you  repent,  and,  in  effect,  you  were 
keeping  a  foolish  promise  you  had  once  made." 

Rourke  shrugged :  "  Well,  that's  done  with. 
But  having  mixed  such  a  poor  cup  for  myself 
there's  nothing  to  do  but  drink  up  the  dregs. 
Faith!  I  wish  Fd  kept  out  of  Santola  alto- 
gether." 

"  Do  not  say  that !  " 

"  Because  of  you,  you  mean  ?  Well,  it's  that 
makes  me  say  it.  I  came  here  and  met  you,  dear ; 
just  as  a  man  might  slip  into  heaven  by  accident. 
And  now  Fve  got  to  leave,  it's  all  the  harder  for 
the  happiness  Fve  known,  and  the  better  time  Fve 
dreamed  of.  There's  times  when  I  see  us  to- 
gether, Jeanne,  in  a  different  place  from  this. 
Just  our  two  selves,  and  never  a  one  to  interfere. 
Sometimes  I  think  it  may  be  possible  still,  for 
all  that  might  want  to  come  between  us."  He 
was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  went  on  in  a  lower 
tone :  "  W^ell,  as  I  was  telling  you,  I  made  a  fool- 
ish promise  once,  and  part  of  it  I  won't  keep  to, 
because  I  want  not  to  be  ashamed  to  look  at  you, 
Jeanne,  if  the  good  time  ever  comes.  But  the 
promise  covered  more  than  Fve  told  you,  and  the 
rest  can  be  kept  without  lying  heavy  on  me." 

Jeanne  slipped  her  arm  through  his,  and 
looked  up  timidly  into  his  face.     Some  premoni- 

245 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

tory  feeling  made  her  hold  closely  to  him,  the 
while  she  searched  his  face  with  questioning 
eyes :  "  You  will  not  go  away  ?  " 

He  put  away  her  arm,  almost  roughly :  "  Yes, 
I'm  going  away." 

"When?     Why?" 

''  Now,  my  dear.  I'm  going  to-day.  I  know 
myself  better  than  I  did ;  the  weakness  of  me,  the 
feeling  that  happiness  comes  first,  and  every- 
thing else  after.  Another  few  meetings  like  this, 
a  kiss  or  two  as  we  had  this  afternoon,  and  it's 
sorra  a  foot  of  me  could  I  drag  away  from  the 
place." 

"Don't  leave  me!  What  does  it  matter?" 
Jeanne  cried. 

He  straightened  himself  up,  and  looked  down 
into  her  face :  "  We  had  a  bit  of  a  talk  over  a 
thing  like  that  before,  Jeanne.  And  you  said  you 
would  never  send  me  away  from  you,  duty  or  no 
duty.  I  love  you  for  that.  The  woman  who  gives 
up  her  man  for  war,  or  duty,  or  anything,  may 
be  a  heroine,  but  she  isn't  a  proper  wife.  But 
sometimes  he  must  go  all  the  same.  Keep  me  if 
you  can,  Jeanne.     I'm  fighting  against  going." 

Jeanne  had  raised  her  arms.  She  dropped 
them  again,  and  looked  at  him  keenly.  "  Go,  if 
you  can,"  she  said  softly.  "I  am  here.  Who 
knows  what  is  beyond?     Go,  if  you  can." 

He  went  nearer,  and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 
246 


CONFESSION 

He  kissed  her  many  times,  pressed  her  to  him, 
and  whispered.  It  was  quite  dark  all  about  them 
now,  and  in  the  soft  sky  only  an  errant  star 
shone,  like  a  diamond  spark  on  a  bed  of  black 
velvet.  The  air  was  warm  and  sweet,  the  sounds 
of  day  had  hushed  to  quiet  murmurs. 

"  Jeanne !     Jeanne ! " 

Courvois  was  calling  from  somewhere  within. 
Rourke  heard  him,  and  released  Jeanne.  They 
moved  toward  the  farther  wall. 

"  I  don't  want  to  meet  him  to-night,"  he 
whispered.  "  Let  me  out  by  the  door  to  the 
street.     Quick !  " 

They  crossed  the  patio  without  noise,  and 
Jeanne  opened  the  door  under  the  archway  lead- 
ing to  the  road. 

He  held  her  hand  for  a  moment.  "  It's  au 
revoir  then.  Soon  or  late.  I  won't  say  good- 
by.     Can  you  forgive  me  for  going?  " 

Jeanne  did  not  reply,  but  the  quick  pressure 
of  her  fingers  reassured  him.  Then  the  door  was 
shut  behind  him,  and  Jeanne  turned  wearily  to  go 
into  the  cafe. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

RETREAT 

ROURKE  gained  the  street  without  hav- 
ing attracted  the  attention  of  the  passers- 
by.  He  intended  to  leave  Santola  as 
secretly  as  possible,  so  that  his  departure  might 
remain  unmarked,  and  uncommented  upon,  for 
a  day  at  least. 

For  this  reason,  he  did  not  cross  the  plaza, 
but  emerged  at  the  lower  end  of  the  street,  bound- 
ing one  side  of  the  Cafe  Fleur  de  Lys,  and  thrid- 
ding  the  narrower  ways  that  lay  in  the  eastern 
quarter  came  out  presently  to  the  rim  of  the 
grassy  plain.  The  town  now  lay  at  his  back,  a 
mass  of  irregular  black  shapes  hardly  visible 
against  the  background  of  the  night  sky.  He 
was  able  only  to  rely  upon  his  sense  of  direction 
to  guide  him  to  the  place  where  the  man  waited 
with  the  mare.  The  moon  still  hid  behind  the 
horizon,  and  half  an  hour  must  pass  before  it 
would  swing  up,  and  illumine  the  plain. 

He  walked  on  steadily,  half  consciously  lis- 
248 


RETREAT 

tening  to  the  hum  of  movement,  of  voices,  sub- 
dued and  softened  by  distance,  which  came  to  his 
ears  ever  more  faintly  as  he  went  westward. 
That,  too,  died  down,  and  the  place  was  marvel- 
ously  still.  Only  the  long  grasses  crisped  and 
crackled  under  foot.  There  was  no  wind,  the  air 
lay  stagnant;  warm,  clinging,  saturated  with  the 
moisture  rising  up  from  the  heated  earth.  The 
going  here  was  uncertain;  matted  tussocks  of 
grass,  little  dips,  and  elevations  in  the  surface, 
burrows  delved  out  by  viscachas,  were  traps  for 
the  unwary  foot,  invisible  in  the  darkness. 
Rourke  stumbled  many  times,  but  managed  to 
keep  his  feet,  and  made  slow  but  steady  progress 
toward  his  goal.  Out  of  sight  of  the  town,  he 
lighted  a  cigar,  smoking  meditatively  as  he 
tramped  on. 

At  length,  the  moon  showed  her  pale  rim,  and 
climbing  slowly,  sent  a  broad  white  beam  across 
the  wilderness  of  grass.  Stars  leaped  into  flame, 
and  glowed  brightly  overhead,  the  whole  heavens 
were  lighted  up,  as  if  a  mighty  fire  were  percep- 
tible through  the  transparency  of  an  immense, 
milky  dome.  It  showed  the  gradually  altering 
aspect  of  the  terrain.  It  was  more  ridgy  here, 
undulating,  interspersed  with  gnarled  bushes, 
patches  of  low  scrub,  like  black  islets  in  a  sea  of 
tarnished  silver. 

He  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  set  his 
249 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

course  pretty  directly  for  the  point  he  wished  to 
reach.  He  knew  where  he  was  now,  recognizing 
trifling  landmarks,  with  which  he  had  purposely 
famiharized  himself  on  his  morning  rides.  About 
a  mile  farther  on,  the  mare  would  be  waiting  for 
him,  and  the  real  journey  would  begin.  Quick- 
ening his  pace,  he  hurried  forward. 

Presently,  some  one  hailed  him:  "  Que  hay? 
is  it  the  English  senor,  or  another  ?  " 

He  looked  to  the  side  from  which  the  call 
came,  and  could  see  his  mare  standing  in  the 
shadow  of  a  thorn  bush,  with  a  dark  figure  at  her 
head.  "  It  is  I,"  he  called  softly,  "  Rourke.  I 
have  kept  you  a  trifle  late.  However,  here  I  am, 
and  ready  to  start." 

"  Good,"  said  the  man,  leading  the  skewbald 
forward.  "  The  senor  will  see  that  his  saddle- 
bag is  slung,  and  also  a  skin  of  water.  The  beast 
was  fed  before  I  brought  her  out." 

Rourke  produced  a  handful  of  small  silver, 
and  let  it  run  into  his  palm :  "  There's  the 
amount  we  agreed,  and  a  little  over.  I  couldn't 
travel  very  fast  till  the  moon  came  up." 

The  man  counted  the  coins,  biting  each  in 
turn.  Rourke  put  his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  and 
mounted,  gathering  up  the  reins,  as  he  settled 
himself  in  the  saddle.  The  mare  was  fresh,  and 
moved  restlessly  under  him,  sidling  and  curvet- 
ting, as  his  heels  pressed  her  sides. 

250 


RETREAT 

"  Gracias,  sefior.  The  saints  travel  beside 
you,  and  protect  you.     Adios." 

Rourke  leaned  over  to  him :  "  Don't  talk. 
Keep  this  to  yourself.  If  it  leaks  out,  and  you 
are  asked,  say  you  saw  me  riding  eastward." 

"  Certainly  I  shall  say  so.  That  is  under- 
stood." 

Rourke  nodded,  flung  him  a  word  of  farewell, 
and  started  at  a  hand  gallop.  So  far  everything 
had  gone  well.  He  was  clear  of  Santola,  had 
extricated  himself  from  the  net  of  circumstance, 
and  was  his  own  man  once  more.  Yet  this 
recovered  liberty  bred  in  him  no  mood  of  ex- 
aggerated gayety.  He  felt  heavy  at  heart,  de- 
spondent even,  as  he  thought  of  the  pleasant  days 
that  lay  behind  him,  and  contemplated  the  uncer- 
tain and  somber  future.  When  he  was  with 
Jeanne,  encouraged  by  her  proximity,  made  con- 
fident by  her  faith  in  him,  he  had  felt  that  every- 
thing was  possible.  Something  good  would 
come,  something  would  change  the  situation,  and 
enable  him  to  face  life  with  cheerfulness  and 
hope.  It  was  impossible,  with  her  at  his  side,  to 
fall  back  into  the  pessimistic  mood  which  had 
formerly  colored  and  darkened  his  outlook.  Left 
to  himself,  however,  to  face  the  realities  of  the 
situation,  the  exigencies  of  his  position,  he  felt 
like  a  man  awakened  from  an  opium  dream  to 
the  prosaic  and  bewildering  facts  of  life. 
17  251 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

He  had  covered  some  fifty  miles  by  the  time 
the  sun  had  risen,  and  rode  up  to  the  estancia, 
standing  soHtarily  on  the  plain.  A  couple  of 
peons  had  just  roused  themselves  from  sleep,  and 
came  out  to  the  corridor,  yawning,  and  rubbing 
their  eyes.  They  interrupted  the  rolling  of  ma- 
tutinal cigarettes,  for  a  moment,  to  hail  the 
stranger. 

"  It's  a  gringo,"  said  one. 

"  No,  it  is  not  a  gringo.  See  how  he  rides. 
Those  others  are  for  all  the  world  like  water- 
skins  upon  a  saddle.  Hola!  good  day  to  you, 
senor.    You  ride  fast  and  early." 

Rourke  wheeled  in  a  semicircle,  and  drew  his 
mare  up  with  a  flourish  before  the  estancia. 
"  Good  day,  amigos  mios.  Is  the  patron  with- 
in?" 

"  No,  sefior,  he  has  gone  to  visit  a  neighbor. 
Nevertheless,  do  you  come  in,  and  rest.  I  shall 
see  to  the  mare,  while  Jose  here  will  make  your 
Honor  some  breakfast." 

"  Thank  you.  I  shall  be  glad,  too,  if  you 
could  sling  me  a  hammock  in  the  shade  of  the 
corridor  there.  I  have  ridden  all  night,  and  could 
sleep  like  the  seven  saints  of  Ephesus." 

He  clambered  down,  rather  stiffly,  and  flung 
the  reins  to  the  peon  who  had  spoken.  The  other 
lighted  his  cigarette,  glanced  curiously  at  him, 
and  strolled  into  the  house.    Coffee  and  frijoles 

252 


RETREAT 

were  soon  placed  before  him,  and  almost  as  quick- 
ly disappeared.  The  hammock  he  had  asked  for, 
was  slung  between  the  wooden  pillars  support- 
ing the  veranda.  Rourke  lit  a  cigar,  settled  him- 
self comfortably,  and  went  promptly  to  sleep, 
with  the  unsmoked  cigar  between  his  fingers. 
He  did  not  awaken  until  the  sun  had  begun  to 
decline. 

In  this  way,  sleeping  by  day,  and  pushing  on 
when  evening  was  beginning  to  close  in,  he  made 
his  way  to  a  point  an  hour's  ride  distant  from 
Copar.  He  did  not  call  at  any  of  the  villages  on 
the  route,  since,  in  these  lonely  spots,  the  arrival 
of  a  stranger,  and  that  a  gringo,  w^ould  be  a  topic 
of  conversation  for  days.  Not  that  he  believed 
he  would  be  followed  from  Santola.  He  thought 
that  hardly  likely.  But,  in  his  position,  it  was 
wiser  to  take  every  precaution.  He  trusted  to 
the  never-failing  hospitality  of  the  estancicros 
across  whose  lands  he  rode,  and  was  entertained 
with  all  the  resources  at  their  disposal. 

Copar  he  avoided  advisedly,  for  Seguien  had 
talked  before,  and  might  talk  again,  and  the 
skewbald  was  too  characteristically  marked  to  be 
easily  forgotten.  He  had  not  had  time  to  advise 
Leon  of  his  intended  arrival.  That,  however, 
would  not  matter  much  in  the  present  circum- 
stances. 

The  last  stage  was  quickly  covered,  and  once 
253 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

more  he  found  himself  traversing  the  line  of  hills 
that  lay  like  green  footstools  beneath  the  frown- 
ing sierra.  He  did  not  attempt  the  ascent  until 
it  was  full  day;  then  proceeded  cautiously,  be- 
cause the  track  was  slippery  and  uneven,  unsafe 
going  for  any  beast  less  sure-footed  than  a  mule. 
Once,  it  occurred  to  him  that  Smith's  reported 
accident  might  be  merely  a  blind  to  lull  him  into 
false  security.  He  kept  close  watch  after  that, 
searching  every  slope  of  the  mountain  as  he  as- 
cended, but  without  result.  Leon  was  at  hand, 
after  all,  and  not  likely  to  let  anyone  slip  by  un- 
observed. 

He  was  halfway  up  the  incline,  before  it  be- 
came necessary  for  him  to  dismount,  and  lead 
his  mare.  From  that  point  onward,  the  track 
climbed  more  steeply,  fissures  crossed  it,  boul- 
ders and  ragged  stones  lay  upon  it,  the  debris 
of  trifling  landslips. 

Some  little  distance  below  the  mouth  of  the 
pass,  the  track  curved  elbow-wise,  and  there  was 
a  little  platform  of  rock,  with  a  clear  view  of  the 
valley  on  favorable  days,  where  Leon  used  to  sit 
and  smoke,  and  amuse  himself  by  throwing  dice, 
the  left  against  the  right  hand.  Rourke  could 
see  the  place  obscurely  now,  and  watched  it  con- 
stantly, to  see  if  the  mulatto  sat  there. 

Evidently  he  did.  As  he  ascended,  the  upper 
part  of  a  man's  figure  could  be  discerned,  above 

254 


RETREAT 

the  ridge  of  rock  which  formed  a  natural  parapet 
to  the  platform.  It  remained  there,  motionless, 
rigid,  for  a  short  time,  then  disappeared.  The 
figure  was  no  longer  visible,  and  Rourke  con- 
cluded that  Leon  had  seen  him,  and  was  now 
coming  down  the  track  to  greet  him.  He  met 
him  a  mile  farther  up,  hurrying  at  his  best  pace, 
his  poncho  flapping  in  the  strong  breeze  that 
played  about  the  mountain's  slopes. 

"  You  have  returned,  amigo  mio,"  he  said 
delightedly.  "Ay  de  mi!  It  is  lonely  here.  A 
man  might  be  less  lonely  in  his  grave.  Well, 
what  news  ?  " 

Rourke  gripped  him  by  the  hand,  swung  the 
mare  round,  and  backed  her  against  a  gnarled 
root,  to  which  he  fastened  the  reins.  Leon 
squatted  down  on  a  boulder,  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
rolled  another  for  his  companion.  "  It  is  not  such 
good  news  then,"  he  went  on,  shrugging  philo- 
sophically.   "  I  can  see  so  much  by  your  face." 

"  No,  it  is  not  good  news." 

Rourke  sat  down  beside  him,  and  stared  at 
his  dusty  boots.  The  prospect  seemed  to  him 
more  dismal  than  ever.  That  feeling  grew  upon 
him,  as  he  contemplated  the  rugged  scenery  to 
either  hand,  when  lengthened  observation  of  his 
extremities  told  him  that  nothing  was  to  be 
gained  by  absent  introspection.  Frankly,  he  was 
at  the  end  of  his  tether. 

255 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  I'll  explain  it  all  to  you,  Leon,  as  well  as 
I'm  able,"  he  said,  after  a  prolonged  silence. 
"  You  mayn't  think  I  was  right,  or  again  you 
may — it's  done,  anyhow,  and  can't  be  undone." 

Leon  made  a  wry  face,  pulping  his  unfinished 
cigarette  between  his  fingers :  "  We  shall  see, 
compadreJ' 

Rourke  told  him  all.  He  kept  nothing  back 
which  was  necessary  to  explain  the  attitude  he 
had  taken  up.  Some  things  he  did  not  tell,  but 
those  were  none  the  less  irrelevant  because  so 
sacred  to  him.  Leon  listened  with  immovable 
face,  he  did  not  appear  displeased,  nor  show  out- 
wardly how  he  regarded  the  matter.  Loyalty 
was  one  of  his  strongest  qualities.  Loyalty  does 
not  always  lead  one  to  think  one's  leader  infalli- 
ble; it  recognizes  his  fallibility,  but  discounts  it, 
as  a  defect  common  to  all  men.  The  highest 
form  of  loyalty  is  that  which  can  forgive. 

So  he  smoked,  and  nodded,  and  listened. 
When  the  story  was  ended,  he  smiled  wisely,  and 
patted  his  companion's  knee. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  a  woman  would  mix 
herself  up  in  the  afifair?"  he  asked,  quizzically. 
"  If  there  were  no  women  in  the  world,  every- 
thing would  go  on  wheels." 

"  Go,  yes;  but  where?  "  Rourke  asked,  recov- 
ering his  good  humor. 

"  Who  knows  ?  At  all  events,  the  woman  has 
256 


RETREAT 

come,  and  the  affair  is  at  an  end.  Amigo,  you 
will  forgive  me  if  I  say  you  were  a  fool  to  leave 
Santola.  Your  heart  is  there,  and  a  man  without 
his  heart  is  bad  company.  You  should  have 
stayed  there,  married  this  love  of  yours,  got  a 
dowry  with  her  from  this  Courvois,  and  lived 
very  happily  ever  after." 

"Well,  why  didn't  I?" 

"  Because  you  are  the  kind  of  fool  whom 
every  man  wishes  to  have  for  a  friend."  He 
stopped,  and  gravely  put  out  his  hand:  ''Well, 
there  it  stands.  If  we  live,  we  live;  if  we  starve, 
we  starve.  There  is  enough  to  last  us  a  fort- 
night— more,  perhaps,  if  we  take  care.  After 
that,  the  saints  must  do  their  best  for  us." 

Rourke  drew  his  poncho  closer  about  him. 
"  Sometimes  I  think  it  may  end  soon,"  he  said, 
reflectively. 

Leon  pursed  his  lips:  "Do  you  know  that, 
sometimes,  I  myself  have  resolved  to  end  it? 
That  is  strange,  no  ?  " 

"  Tut !  I  suppose  things  are  the  same  as 
usual.    No  trouble  lately?" 

"  She  is  well.  Quiet,  too.  I  have  not  been 
worried  of  late.    That  is  something  in  itself." 

**  It's  a  cheerful  situation  altogether." 

"  Amigo,  if  she  would  only  die.  I  look  at  her 
often,  and  ask  myself  how  long  this  can  go  on. 
She  is  frail,  thin  as  a  skeleton;  she  has  been  on 

257 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

the  verge  of  the  grave  these  four  years —  If 
she  would  only  die  soon !  " 

"  The  watched  pot  never  boils,  and  the 
watched  invalid  never  dies — bad  luck  to  me  for 
a  heartless  creature  to  say  the  like  of  that !  But 
it's  all  so  natural  to  be  feeling  that  way.  She's 
a  tether  on  us,  Leon;  the  best  part  of  our  lives 
will  be  spent  on  her.  If  you  feel  it  sore,  think  of 
me!" 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you,  my  friend,"  Leon 
said  quietly.    ''  Really,  it  is  not  your  affair " 

"  I  promised  Roquille,  poor  fellow.  What  I 
said  then,  I'll  stick  to.  Whatever  she  is,  it  isn't 
any  of  her  doing.  It's  a  visitation  of  God."  He 
paused,  then  resumed  in  a  more  cheerful  tone: 
*'  By  the  way,  I  suppose  you  didn't  receive  a  visit 
from  my  American  friend,  Mr.  Smith?  He  was 
thinking  of  calling  this  way,  as  I  told  you  in  my 
letter." 

Leon  laughed  uproariously:  "He  was  here. 
It  was  a  terrible  night;  the  wind  raged,  and  the 
cold  was  intense.  He  slept  part  of  the  night  in 
the  hut,  and  took  me  to  be  an  old  woman.  I  had 
borrowed  some  of  Madame  Roquille's  clothes, 
and  kept  my  head  covered.  He  sat  up  near  the 
fire  until  it  was  late,  smoking,  and  listening  to  the 
tale  we  invented,  you  remember." 

"  You  frightened  him  thoroughly  then.  I 
heard  he'd  had  an  accident,  but  did  not  hear  how 

258 


RETREAT 

it  had  been  caused.  I  suppose  he  fell  when  bolt- 
ing  down  the  mountain  ?  " 

*'  I  think  so.  I  followed  him  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, thinking  he  might  fall  over  some  danger- 
ous place.  He  kept  to  the  track,  as  it  happened, 
and  tripped  over  a  large  root  farther  down.  I 
picked  him  up,  and  carried  him  down  to  Copar  on 
the  mule.  I  left  him  there  with  Seguien  of  the 
pulperia." 

"  I  heard  he  was  at  Copar." 

"  Yes,  but  he  has  left  there  since  that.  The 
injury  was  not  so  severe  as  it  seemed  at  first,  and 
he  took  mule  cart  to  Pano ;  so  I  was  told  by  Se- 
guien yesterday.  From  there  he  would  go  by 
train  home." 

"  But  the  trunk  line  doesn't  touch  Santola." 

"  True,  but  there  is  another  town  not  so  far 
away.  So  far  as  I  could  hear,  the  sefior  was  in 
fair  health,  and  able  to  undertake  a  journey." 

Rourke  stared  straight  before  him :  "  How 
long  was  that  ago?  I  mean,  when  did  he  leave 
Copar?" 

"  There  are  perhaps  ten  days " 

"  He  left  Copar  ten  days  ago,"  Rourke  re- 
peated slowly,  "  and  he  traveled  most  of  the  way 
home  by  rail.  Then  he  ought  to  have  arrived  in 
Santola  some  time  back.  That's  funny !  I  know 
he  hadn't  turned  up  when  I  left.  Then  what's 
been  keeping  him?  " 

259 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  I  do  not  quite  follow  you." 

"  Why,  think  of  it !  Smith  left  ten  days  ago. 
The  journey  to  Santola  shouldn't  occupy  more 
than  six.  Obviously,  he  has  stayed  somewhere 
in  the  meanwhile.  Don't  you  see  my  drift?  He 
thinks  I  have  a  claim,  or  he  wouldn't  have  set  out 
to  jump  it.  He  still  thinks  so.  But,  surely,  he 
wouldn't  come  back  here  after  the  fright  he  got." 

Leon  knitted  his  brow :  "  He  might.  I  was 
talking  to  Seguien  about  him.  The  oddest  thing. 
You  know,  all  the  people  in  Copar  believe  in  the 
phantom  dog.  Seguien  believed  that  the  senor 
had  met  it  on  the  mountains.  But  the  sefior 
denied  it  altogether  to  him.  He  did  not  seem  to 
have  remembered  how  he  spent  the  night  in  the 
hut  above.    How  do  you  explain  that  ?  " 

''  If  that  is  so,  it  is  an  unfortunate  thing  for 
us.  I've  heard  of  such  cases,  though.  Men  who 
got  a  blow  on  the  head,  and  promptly  forgot  who 
gave  it  to  them,  and  all  about  the  incident." 

"  Strange." 

"  It  is,  but  that  doesn't  make  matters  any  bet- 
ter. Ten  to  one.  Smith's  only  forgot  the  part  we 
wanted  him  to  remember.  He  may  intend  to 
have  another  try  for  the  claim.  That  would  ex- 
plain why  he  didn't  go  straight  back  to  Santola. 
I  wonder  if  he  wrote  to  Mitad?  " 

"  Might  he  not  write  to  Courvois  ?  " 

"  Faith !  he  might.  I  sent  Mitad  off  on  a 
260 


RETREAT 

wild-goose  chase,  but  the  Frenchman  was  there 
to  his  hand,  and  a  cleverer  rogue,  anyway.  The 
other  fellow  wouldn't  venture  on  the  pass  for  a 
fortune.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  Courvois 
and  Smith  made  up  their  minds  to  come  here  to- 
gether." 

Leon  made  a  gesture  of  alarm :  "  What  are 
we  to  do  with  them,  if  they  come  ?  Short  of  dis- 
posing of  them  completely " 

"  Come,  we're  not  assassins !  At  the  worst, 
we  can  cross  the  mountain,  and  live  on  the  other 
side  till  they've  given  up  the  search.  Anyway, 
that  will  keep  till  to-morrow.  We'll  talk  it  over 
more  fully  then,  and  decide  what  is  to  be  done. 
I'm  dog  tired,  and  just  dying  for  a  sleep." 

Leon  rose,  adjusted  his  poncho,  and  unloosed 
the  mare :  "  You  do  not  wish  to  see  her,  of 
course?  " 

"  Not  to-night,  Leon.  I  have  enough  to  think 
of  without  that.    Let's  be  moving  on." 

They  walked  on,  side  by  side,  Leon  leading 
the  mare,  and  talking  rapidly.  And  presently 
they  turned  a  corner  of  the  track,  and  entered 
the  pass. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

IN    CONCERT 

SMITH'S  letter  only  reached  Courvois  on 
the  evening  of  Rourke's  departure,  either 
owing  to  some  neglect  on  the  part  of  the 
servant  to  whom  he  had  intrusted  it  to  post,  or 
to  some  delay  on  the  part  of  the  local  postal  au- 
thorities, notorious  for  the  poor  service  they 
maintained. 

Courvois  had  it  in  his  pocket,  when  he  re- 
turned to  the  cafe,  and  called  Jeanne  away  from 
that  momentous  and  final  interview  with  Rourke. 
He  had  already  called  at  the  water-seller's,  and, 
learning  that  the  latter  had  gone  out,  and  that 
the  mare  had  been  saddled  and  led  away  earlier 
in  the  day,  hurried  back  to  inquire  of  his  daugh- 
ter if  she  knew  Rourke's  whereabouts.  There 
was  something  in  his  tone  which  warned  her  that 
the  situation  had  entered  on  a  new  phase.  He 
could  not  restrain  his  perturbation  and  anxiety. 
She  temporized,  therefore,  compounding  with  her 
conscience  as  seemed  wisest  in  an  affair  of  such 
urgent  importance. 

262 


IN    CONCERT 

"  He  has  gone,  perhaps,"  Coiirvois  said 
sharply.    "  Did  you  not  see  him  to-day?  " 

"  But  certainly,"  she  rephed  cahnly.  "  He 
was  here  a  few  minutes  ago.  Did  you  wish  to 
see  him?  " 

Courvois  looked  relieved,  though  still  some- 
what puzzled:  "Yes — or,  rather,  I  was  anxious 
to  know  if  he  contemplated  leaving  Santola." 

Jeanne  knew  now  that  she  must  be  prepared 
to  suppress  the  exact  truth.  "  Leave  here  ?  "  she 
said  slowly.    "  But  why  ?  " 

He  shrugged:  ''  That  I  do  not  know.  I  heard 
that  his  mare  was  gone,  and  thought — "  He 
paused,  frowning  irritably.  He  was  consider- 
ably hampered  by  the  necessity  of  keeping  the 
true  state  of  afifairs  from  Jeanne. 

"  Et  puisf  It  is  not  the  first  time,  I  suppose, 
that  he  has  gone  for  a  ride." 

'*  So  late?"  Courvois  was  asking  himself 
the  question,  though  he  spoke  aloud.  Then,  see- 
ing that  Jeanne  was  watching  him  closely,  he 
became  calm,  smoothed  his  brow,  and  smiled: 
"  We  have  an  afifair  on  hand,  he  and  I.  Natu- 
rally, I  should  not  like  him  to  depart  without  ad- 
vising me  of  his  intention.  Bien,  I  shall,  no 
doubt,  see  him  again  to-morrow." 

He  left  her,  and  entered  his  office,  closing 
the  door  behind  him.  He  sat  down  at  his  bureau, 
and  absently  lit  a  cigarette.     He  had  decided  to 

263 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

join  Smith  in  the  venture,  but  it  appeared  to  him 
that  his  own  duty  in  the  matter  would  prove 
more  difficult  than  Smith  imagined.  Take  the 
present  instance:  how  was  he  to  know  if  Rourke 
was  still  in  Santola?  He  might  be  out  riding, 
for  pleasure,  but,  again,  he  might  not.  It  was 
quite  possible  that  he  had  deceived  even  Jeanne 
as  to  his  intentions.  That  idea  disquieted  him, 
and  he  half  made  up  his  mind  to  revisit  the  house 
of  the  water-seller  and  inquire  if  Rourke  had  re- 
turned. He  fidgeted  with  some  papers  on  his 
bureau,  arranging  them  into  neat  little  heaps, 
and  scattering  them  again  with  a  nervous  hand. 
He  hardly  knew  what  to  do  next.  Should  he 
write  to  Smith,  assuring  him  of  his  cooperation, 
or  first  ascertain  if  the  Irishman  had  left  the 
town?  The  latter  seemed  the  wiser  plan.  If 
he  let  Rourke  escape  him,  the  whole  scheme  fell 
to  the  ground.  The  success  of  the  plan  depended 
upon  Rourke  remaining  in  Santola. 

Despite  these  complications,  he  thought  with 
relief  that  it  was  very  fortunate  Rourke  had  not 
accepted  his  ofifer  for  the  claim.  One  hundred 
and  twenty-five  thousand  francs  had  been  abso- 
lutely saved  to  him  by  the  fellow's  inexplicable 
refusal.  Such  a  sum!  He  shuddered  to  think 
how  nearly  he  had  lost  it.  Smith  would  have 
thought  him  a  fool. 

264 


IN    CONCERT 

This  train  of  thought  was  interrupted  by  a 
tap  at  the  door. 

"  Enter !  "  he  called,  looking  up  angrily. 

Solar,  the  head  waiter,  turned  the  handle, 
and  entered,  smiling  deprecatingly :  "  A  thou- 
sand pardons,  but  the  water-seller  has  come  into 
the  cafe,  and  desires  to  see  you,  sefior." 

Courvois  started.  Had  he  guessed  aright? 
"  Show  him  in  at  once.  Tell  him  I  shall  see  him 
with  pleasure." 

Solar  bowed,  and  withdrew,  to  return  in  a 
few  moments  accompanied  by  the  water-seller. 
The  latter  nodded  significantly  to  Courvois,  who 
signed  to  Solar  to  leave  them.  Then  he  closed 
the  door  softly,  and  came  to  stand  beside  the 
bureau. 

"Well?" 

"  You  called  at  my  house  this  evening, 
sefior  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  I  inquired  if  your  lodger,  Sefior 
Rourke,  was  at  home.  I  was  assured  that  he  had 
gone  out;  also,  that  his  mare  had  been  taken 
away  earlier  in  the  day." 

"  It  is  quite  true.  He  paid  me  for  a  week  in 
advance.  When  I  was  out  on  my  business,  he 
left  the  house.  A  peon,  whom  I  do  not  know, 
brought  his  written  instructions  that  the  mare 
was  to  be  delivered  to  him.  My  wife  followed 
these  instructions,  giving  him  also   the  saddle- 

265 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

bag,  which,  it  appears,  Sefior  Rourke  left  ready 
packed.    It  was  done  without  my  knowledge." 

Courvois  rose,  and  began  to  pace  up  and 
down  the  room.  He  was  mortified  and  angry, 
darting  sharp  glances  at  the  water-seller,  as  he 
passed  and  repassed  him,  as  if  disposed  to  hold 
him  responsible  for  the  happening. 

"  Do  you  think  he  has  left  Santola  then  ?  "  he 
asked,  vehemently. 

The  man  raised  his  eyebrows :  "  Who  knows. 
It  seems  as  if  he  had.  That  is  why  I  have  come 
to  you,  since  you  promised  to  pay  me  for  all  the 
information  I  might  bring  with  respect  to  this 
sefior's  movements.  I  believe  he  has  left  the 
town  secretly,  else  why  should  he  pay  me  for  a 
week  in  advance  ?  " 

"  Why  should  he  pay  you  at  all !  "  snapped 
Courvois,  pausing  to  stare  at  him. 

"  Because  he  is  honest,  I  suppose,"  said  the 
water-seller  frankly.  "  I  do  not  complain.  I 
come  here  to  inform  you,  that  is  all." 

Courvois  nodded  sullenly,  and,  opening  a 
drawer  in  his  bureau,  took  out  some  silver  coins, 
which  he  gave  to  his  informant.  As  the  man 
was  counting  them,  he  sat  down,  and  scribbled 
a  message  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  telling  Smith  that 
Rourke  had  left  Santola,  and  asking  for  instruc- 
tions as  to  their  next  move.  He  was  in  a  mood 
bordering  on  despair,  as  he  thought  of  the  way 

266 


IN    CONCERT 

he  had  been  tricked,  and  the  opportunity  he  had 
thrown  away.  At  this  critical  juncture,  he  rehed 
upon  the  American's  reputation  for  resource. 
He  himself  was  quite  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed. 

"  Oblige  me,"  he  said,  handing  the  paper  to 
the  water-seller,  who  waited  silently.  "  I  want 
this  message  to  be  telegraphed  to  the  Seiior 
Smith.  You  will  find  the  address  here.  Run 
with  it  instantly  to  the  office,  and  you  shall  re- 
ceive five  pesos.    Do  not  linger,  but  go  at  once." 

The  man  grasped  at  the  paper,  flung  on  his 
sombrero,  and  hurried  out.  While  he  was  ab- 
sent, Courvois  lighted  three  cigarettes,  one  after 
another,  and  left  them  smoldering  on  top  of  the 
bureau.  He  could  not  settle  to  anything,  left  his 
seat  and  resumed  it  several  times,  stared  ab- 
sently about  him.  In  this  depressed  mood,  he 
lost  faith  even  in  the  American.  He  had  lost  the 
chance  of  making  a  fortune,  that  was  the  truth 
of  the  matter.  He  repeated  that  to  himself, 
with  a  countenance  of  blank  and  immeasurable 
despair. 

The  water-seller  returned  at  the  end  of  fif- 
teen minutes;  he  still  carried  the  paper,  and 
looked  apologetically  at  his  principal. 

"  Unfortunately,  the  place  is  closed,"  he  an- 
nounced slowly.     "  The  time  has  passed  for  the 
sending  of  telegrams.     I  am  afraid  it  is  neces- 
sary to  wait  until  the  morning." 
18  267 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

Another  delay.  Courvois  slammed  his  open 
hand  upon  the  bureau,  and  swore  venomously. 
"  Diantre!  there  is  always  something  to  mock 
me.  Well,  here  are  your  five  pesos.  Go  now, 
but  return  to  inform  me  if,  by  any  chance,  the 
fellow  should  come  back." 

''  Most  certainly,  seiior.  I  will  come  at  once." 
Courvois  was  up  early  on  the  following 
morning,  and  himself  went  to  the  post  office  to 
despatch  the  telegram.  Then  he  returned  to  the 
cafe  to  wait.  The  hours  passed  slowly,  there- 
after, and  he  was  in  a  state  of  extreme  nervous 
tension  when  noon  had  passed  without  the  ar- 
rival of  a  wire  in  reply.  At  two  o'clock,  how- 
ever, he  went  to  the  post  office  again,  and  was 
handed  a  wire  which  had  just  come  in.  He  re- 
turned to  his  office  to  read  it.    It  ran  thus: 

"  Unfortunate,  but  not  fatal.  Man  probably 
riding,  and  will  lose  time.  Come  to  me  here  at 
once,  preparing  for  long  absence.  We  go  by 
train  to  Pano,  and  shorten  journey.    Do  not  fail. 

"  Smith." 

Courvois  felt  more  hopeful.  He  had  not 
thought  of  this  alternative  policy.  There  was  a 
diligence  going  to  Coipo  that  afternoon,  or, 
rather,  in  the  early  evening.  He  could  catch 
that.     It  only  remained  to  see  Jeanne,  and  ex- 

268 


IN    CONCERT 

plain  that  he  might  be  away  from  home  for  an 
indefinite  period.  She  could  run  the  cafe,  with 
the  assistance  of  Solar,  who  knew  his  business 
thoroughly.     All  was  not  lost  yet. 

He  called  Jeanne  in  to  him,  and  explained 
matters.  She  listened  quietly,  concealing  her 
alarm  at  the  turn  afifairs  had  taken.  She  jumped 
at  once  to  the  conclusion  that  this  sudden  deci- 
sion had  been  come  to  as  a  result  of  Rourke's 
departure.  But  how  had  her  father  discovered 
it,  and  what  did  he  mean  to  do? 

"  It  is  very  sudden,"  she  said  quietly. 
"Where  are  you  going?" 

"  To  Coipo,"  he  said,  looking  away  from  her, 
and  fingering  a  paper-weight  nervously.  "  I 
have  just  had  a  wire  calling  me  there  on  busi- 
ness. A  former  colleague  of  mine,  who  has 
lately  come  from  France,  you  understand.  See 
that  a  bag  is  packed,  and  everything  that  I  shall 
need  put  into  it.  I  shall  leave  in  an  hour  and 
a  half." 

Jeanne  left  him,  half  relieved,  half  doubtful. 
She  did  not  know  that  Smith  was  at  Coipo. 

Courvois  went  to  the  office  where  seats  for 
the  diligence  could  be  booked.  That  done,  he  re- 
turned to  the  cafe,  and  made  his  final  prepara- 
tions. At  six  o'clock  he  left  Santola,  in  the 
mule-drawn  conveyance,  and  began  the  journey 
to  Coipo. 

269 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

Fortunately  for  him,  this  was  not  the  clih- 
gence  which  ran  fortnightly  between  the  two 
towns,  carrying  specie,  and  an  armed  escort. 
That  did  not  travel  by  night,  and  would  have 
delayed  Courvois.  As  it  was,  he  reached  Coipo 
at  seven  o'clock  on  the  following  evening,  and 
found  Smith  waiting  for  him  in  a  private  room 
at  the  principal  hotel. 

"  Well,  monsieur,"  was  the  latter's  greeting. 
"  You've  decided  to  hitch  our  two  teams  on  to 
the  same  wagon  after  all.  That's  bully!  Sit 
down  right  here,  and  tell  me  what's  been  happen- 
ing over  at  Santola  while  I've  been  away.  You'll 
find  a  smoke  of  the  right  kind  on  the  box  at  your 
elbow,  so  get  a  fire  on  it,  and  let  her  hum." 

Courvois  bowed,  and  sat  down.  He  selected 
a  cigar  very  deliberatel}^  cut,  and  lit  it:  "Yes, 
that  is  it.  We  combine  in  this  affair.  But  we 
must  hurry,  for  Rourke  left  Santola  yesterday, 
and  we  do  not  want  to  arrive  after  the  fair. 
Nothing  has  happened  of  importance  since  I  sent 
the  telegram.  The  essence  was  in  that.  A  few 
days  ago  I  offered  him  the  sum  he  asked  for  the 
mining  rights.  He  refused,  saying  that  he  was 
going  to  work  the  claim  himself.  He  has  still 
some  money  of  mine  to  account  for.  I  lent  it 
him  from  time  to  time." 

Smith  looked  at  him  curiously:  "Say,  he 
touched  you  for  a  few  then?     For  all  that,  I 

270 


IN    CONCERT 

reckon  he  didn't  stay  in  Santola  so  long  for  the 
sake  of  a  few  dollars.  Perhaps,  he  heard  some- 
thing and  got  scared.  Anyhow  I  believe  he 
could  deliver  the  goods  if  he  wanted  to." 

"  In  your  opinion  then,  the  claim  is  genu- 
ine?" 

'^  Dead  cinch.  I  thought  he  was  foolin'  me 
to  start  with ;  but  I  guess  now  that  he  held  some 
trumps  after  all.  Probably  when  you  offered 
him  the  cash  right  away,  he  concluded  the  thing 
was  good  enough  to  freeze  on  to." 

Courvois  dropped  his  deliberate  manner, 
which  he  had  assumed  to  cover  the  excitement 
which  devoured  him.  "  At  any  rate,  we  must 
start  at  once,"  he  said  rapidly.     "  At  once." 

"  Now  you  leave  that   to  me,"   said   Smith, 

with  a  yawn.    "  I  was  born  in  a  state  where  they 

ran  the  clocks  by  my  infant  habits,  sure.    George 

H.  never  missed  a  train  in  his  life.    I've  figured 

the  whole  thing  out.    There's  a  train  leaves  here 

in  two  hours,  linking  up  with  the  branch  line  to 

Pano.     That  leaves  us  time   for  a  feed  and  a 

smoke  or  so — are  you  '  heeled,'  may  I  ask?  " 

Courvois  shrugged :  "  What  is  that  word  ?  " 

"  Oh,  slang,  argot.    I  mean  to  carry  a  gun  ?  " 

"  Me,  no.     That  will  not  be  necessary,  eh  ?  '' 

Smith   showed   his   teeth    grimly:    '*  ^^^ell,   I 

don't  hold  with  promisc'us  shooting  as  a  general 

thing,  and  I  never  like  to  draw  on  a  man  who 

271 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

keeps  good  and  quiet.  Still,  up  in  the  moun- 
tains, there's  no  knowing  what  we  may  run  up 
against."  As  he  spoke,  he  crossed  the  room,  and 
took  a  pistol  from  the  coat  he  had  discarded: 
"  Take  this,  Courvois.  Just  hang  on  to  this 
friend  in  need,  in  case  some  one  wants  to  shoot 
you  up." 

Courvois  took  it,  and  examined  it  in  a  way 
that  showed  he  was,  at  least,  familiar  with  the 
mechanism:  "Thank  you,  it  is  loaded,  I  see." 

Smith  smiled  again,  and  put  his  heel  on  the 
smoldering  end  of  his  cigar :  "  Well,  that's  fixed, 
anyhow.  What  do  you  say  to  a  bite  now?  I 
ordered  something  to  be  served  here  about  this 
time.  I  guess  I'll  just  run  down,  and  get  a  move 
on  the  fellows  below,  if  you'll  excuse  me." 

All  things  considered,  Courvois  dined  very 
comfortably,  while  Smith  drank  toast  water,  and 
ate  some  predigested  food  with  an  appearance  of 
weary  indifference,  which  was  more  than  half 
affected.  Then  he  settled  the  bill,  and  Courvois 
with  him,  set  off  to  the  railway  station. 

They  caught  the  train  with  something  to 
spare,  and  settling  themselves  in  a  compartment 
which  made  up  in  roominess  what  it  lacked  in 
comfort,  fell  to  discussing  their  plans.  The  train 
sped  on  through  the  darkness,  jolting  and  rat- 
tling over  the  uneven  road.  They  smoked  and 
talked  steadily.    Smith's  exuberant  faith  in  him- 

272 


IN    CONCERT 

self,  his  extreme  self-confidence,  affected  Cour- 
vois,  and  made  him  take  a  more  optimistic  view 
of  the  affair  than  he  had  yet  done.  The  Ameri- 
can talked  in  the  future  tense.  "  We  shall  do 
this,"  and  "  we  shall  do  that,"  and  so  on.  He 
did  not  seem  to  think  it  possible  that  their  plans 
could  fail.  If  Rourke  traveled  across  country, 
they  were  bound  to  get  there  before  him.  Then 
they  would  find  the  claim,  take  possession  of  it, 
and  keep  Rourke  ofT,  by  force,  if  persuasion 
failed. 

Smith  was  of  the  opinion  that  Rourke  would 
not  visit  Copar,  and  his  experiences  had  showed 
him  that  through  the  village  lay  the  nearest 
route  to  the  Pass  of  the  Dog.  There  was  some- 
thing, too,  which  he  had  forgotten  to  ask  Seguien 
while  he  stayed  at  the  pulperia.  Now  and  again, 
since  his  convalescence,  he  had  been  troubled 
with  vague  recollections,  half  hints,  and  un- 
formed suggestions  which  flitted  through  his 
mind,  and  were  gone  before  he  could  shape  them 
into  a  definite  mental  picture.  The  hiatus,  yawn- 
ing between  the  moment  of  his  return  to  con- 
sciousness, and  his  last  remembered  moment  on 
the  pass,  was  yet  unfilled;  but  bit  by  bit  he 
seemed  to  bridge  it,  to  remember  small  details, 
petty  incidents. 

He  found  the  idea  of  a  dog  more  and  more 
prominent  in  his  mind,  associated  not  only  with 

273 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

the  superstition  to  which  he  had  often  Hstened, 
but  also,  in  some  way,  with  a  past  experience  of 
his  own.  Seguien  had  seemed  to  beHeve  that  he, 
Smith,  had  encountered  this  apparition.  Was 
that  encounter  a  part  of  his  forgotten  experi- 
ence? With  these  questions  in  his  mind,  he  had 
determined  to  ask  Seguien,  when  the  legend  had 
originated,  and  on  what  grounds  it  was  accepted 
as  a  fact. 

At  Pano  they  met  with  some  difficulties.  At 
first  they  could  not  secure  a  conveyance;  when 
they  did,  the  journey  was  broken  and  delayed  by 
a  mishap  to  an  axle.  The  episode  ended  by  their 
returning  to  the  town.  Here  they  had  to  char- 
ter another  vehicle,  which  brought  them  to  Co- 
par  on  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day  after  Cour- 
vois  had  left  Santola. 

Seguien  welcomed  Smith  with  effusion,  and 
while  they  were  taking  a  meal  he  had  hastily 
served  for  them,  answered  the  American's  ques- 
tions readily  enough. 

For  himself,  he  had  not  the  slightest  doubt 
that  a  phantom  dog  prowled  about  the  pass.  He 
had  only  heard  of  it  about  four  years  ago,  it  was 
true;  but  many  had  heard  it  howling  as  they 
skirted  the  lower  slopes  of  the  mountain,  and  one 
muleteer,  who  was  foolhardy  enough  to  attempt 
to  traverse  the  pass  at  night,  swore  that  a  great 
hound  had  brushed  against  him  in  passing,  and 

274 


IN    CONCERT 

promptly  vanished  into  thin  air.  After  that,  no 
wayfarers  had  attempted  to  cross  the  mountain 
by  night  or  day.  The  story  of  the  dog,  he  ex- 
plained, had  been  first  recounted  to  him  by  a 
half-breed,  indeed  the  very  fellow  who  had  car- 
ried Smith  down  from  the  place  where  he  had 
fallen. 

This  information  made  Smith  start.  It 
seemed  significant,  though  precisely  in  what  way 
it  was  significant,  he  could  not  tell. 

"What's  his  name,  Seguien?"  he  asked. 

"  I  do  not  know,  sefior.  He  calls  here  some- 
times for  letters." 

Courvois  and  Smith  exchanged  swift  glances. 

"  Letters  ?  "  asked  Smith,  signing  to  his  com- 
panion to  keep  silence.  "  So  you're  his  poste 
restante.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  isn't  the 
very  fellow  my  Irish  friend  sends  letters  to." 

Seguien's  officiousness  outran  his  discretion. 

"A  tall  gringo,  very  strong?"  he  said  prompt- 
ly. "  Why  there  was  a  stranger  inquiring  about 
him  some  time  ago.  I  bought  a  skewbald  mare 
for  that  man,  and  the  other  asked  where  he  pur- 
chased it." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Smith  eagerly.  "  That  was 
Sefior  Mitad,  another  friend  of  mine.  So  the 
half-breed  calls  here,  then." 

"  Do  you  know  where  he  lives  ?  "  asked  Cour- 
vois, quickly. 

275 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  No,  I  do  not.  Sometimes  he  rides  here, 
sometimes  he  has  come  on  foot.  I  know  nothing 
more." 

"  All  right,  sonny,"  said  Smith.  "  I  won't 
worry  you  any  more.  I  guess  my  friend  here 
has  rounded  his  victuals  up,  and'll  want  to  have 
a  smoke  outside." 

When  they  were  alone  together,  Courvois' 
face  was  beaming. 

"  We  are  on  the  right  track.  That  talkative 
fool  would  tell  one  anything.  We  know  now  that 
Rourke  has  a  friend  living  near  here." 

"  We  know  a  sight  more  than  that.  We 
know  this  fellow  has  been  putting  a  tall  story 
about  the  district,  with  the  idea  of  scaring  folks 
off  the  pass  above.  He's  done  it,  too.  What 
d'ye  make  of  that  ?  " 

Courvois  considered :  "  I  think  one  might 
say " 

"  Shoo !  It  makes  me  plumb  certain  that 
Rourke  has  his  claim  there.  I  said  it  before  to 
Mitad,  and  now  I'm  sure  of  it." 

Courvois  clapped  softly.  His  eyes  were 
sparkling  with  greed. 

"  Then  we  must  start  at  once.  We  must  not 
waste  one  minute.  It  is  the  chance  of  a  life- 
time." 

Smith  agreed.  "  I  reckon  we'll  make  a  move 
right  away,"  he  said. 

276 


CHAPTER    XIX 

THE    CONTACT 

IT  was  essential  that,  from  the  very  outset,  the 
partners  should  combine  haste  with  caution. 
Now  that  they  knew  Rourke  had  a  friend 
living  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  pass,  they  were 
aware  that  the  object  of  their  expedition  had  be- 
come more  difficult  of  attainment,  and  involved 
a  certain  amount  of  risk. 

It  was  improbable,  they  argued,  that  the 
mulatto  lived  on  the  lower  slope  of  the  sierra. 
There  he  might  be  observed  by  chance  travelers, 
skirting  the  mountain  on  their  way  to  the  open 
passes  which  were  unshadowed  by  the  presence 
of  that  mythical  phantom.  Smith,  too,  on  his 
former  expedition,  had  searched  the  lower  levels 
pretty  thoroughly.  Reasoning  on  these  grounds, 
they  felt  that  at  least  half  of  their  journey  might 
be  accomplished  safely,  and  without  fear  of  ob- 
servation. 

Leaving  Copar  an  hour  after  their  arrival, 
they  climbed  the  foothills,  and  found  themselves, 
as  night  came  on,  at  the  beginning  of  the  track 

277 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

which  wound  up  to  the  pass.  The  day  had  been 
hot  and  still;  the  evening  promised  well.  The 
temperature  at  this  height  was,  of  course,  not  so 
equable  as  on  the  plain;  but  the  season  had  ad- 
vanced since  Smith's  visit,  and  the  air  was  quite 
comfortably  warm. 

Courvois  was  of  opinion  that  it  would  be  bet- 
ter to  camp  out  among  the  rocks  at  this  point, 
and  continue  their  way  after  daybreak.  Smith 
was  decidedly  against  that  course,  and  in  the  end 
carried  his  point. 

"  Won't  do,  sonny,"  he  said,  shaking  his 
head ;  ''  now's  the  time  to  cover  a  bit  of  the  road. 
We  can't  see  much  after  dark,  but  neither  can 
the  other  fellow.  We  don't  want  to  walk  up  to 
his  doorstep  in  broad  daylight,  and,  perhaps,  have 
him  pick  us  ofif  with  a  popgun.  No,  sir ;  I  guess 
we'll  push  along,  while  this  holds,  and  by  morn- 
ing we  ought  to  be  most  of  the  way." 

"And  then?" 

"  Well,  then  we  can  go  on,  or  keep  under 
cover  a  bit;  whichever  suits  us  best.  Get  the 
grub  bag  out,  anyhow,  and  stoke  up." 

Upward  progression  was  naturally  slow. 
Moonrise  was  timed  for  three  o'clock,  and  gloom 
swathed  the  sierra  like  a  thick  cloak.  The 
lower  portion  of  the  track,  however,  was  fairly 
straight,  compared  with  the  tortuous  zigzagging 
of  the  higher  section,  and  the  two  men  climbed 

278 


I 


THE    CONTACT 

on  slowly  but  without  mishap.  Courvois'  lack  of 
training  began  to  tell  sadly  on  him;  he  panted 
and  breathed  heavily  as  the  night  wore  on. 
Only  his  invincible  greed  spurred  him  forward, 
and  triumphed  over  physical  fatigue.  Nothing 
could  have  made  him  turn  back  now,  short  of  an 
actual  breakdown. 

The  moon  rose  as  they  reached  a  sharp  turn 
of  the  track,  where,  to  one  side,  a  scrap  of  rock 
rose  for  a  hundred  feet;  on  the  other  side  the 
ground  fell  away  sharply,  a  slope  formed  of  small 
stones,  broken  fragments  from  the  bowlders,  and 
coarse  copper-colored  earth.  Courvois  had  ven- 
tured too  near  the  edge  of  the  track,  and  now 
missed  his  footing,  stumbling  against  a  rock  bal- 
anced upon  a  precarious  bed  of  shale.  The 
weight  of  his  body  disturbed  the  mass,  it  moved 
a  little,  shifted,  and  rolled  over. 

Smith  was  a  man  who  acted  as  rapidly  as  he 
thought.  He  was  at  the  other's  shoulder  before 
the  rock  turned  over,  and,  grasping  his  arms 
tightly,  dragged  him  back  to  safety.  Courvois' 
face  was  perfectly  bloodless,  his  lips  worked  con- 
vulsively, and  the  perspiration  slid  from  his  fore- 
head in  great  drops.  He  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  track,  and  watched,  with  startling  eyes, 
the  rock  bounding  down  the  slope,  carrying  with 
it  stones,  bowlders,  and  debris,  in  a  miniature 
avalanche. 

279 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

The  sound  was  like  the  clashing  of  great  wa- 
ters, reverberating  on  the  still  air,  gathering 
echoes,  grating,  roaring,  and  rumbling.  It  died 
away  presently,  and  Smith  laughed  mirthlessly. 

"  Sonny,  I  reckon  you  were  as  near  hustling 
into  Kingdom  Come  as  ever  was,"  he  said  grim- 
ly. "  That  was  an  almighty  fine  slide,  I  can  tell 
you.  I  bet  you'd  have  been  a  boneless  wonder  if 
you'd  gone  a-riding  on  that  rock.  I'd  admire  to 
see  a  baseball  catcher  stop  that,  I  would  sure." 

"  My  foot  slipped,"  Courvois  said,  in  a  small 
voice. 

*'  You  darned  near  slipped  altogether,"  said 
Smith.  "  Well,  I  do  hope  that  mulatto  is  used 
to  hearing  the  stones  cavorting  about  that  way, 
or  he'll  be  wakened  pretty  slick." 

Courvois  got  up  unsteadily,  and  opened  the 
bag  in  which  they  carried  their  provisions.  He 
got  out  a  brandy  bottle,  gulped  at  it  twice,  and 
began  to  recover  his  color.  He  was  not  really  a 
cowardly  man,  and,  now  that  the  danger  was 
passed,  he  quickly  regained  control  of  his  nerves. 

"  It  might  have  been  a  terrible  thing  for  me," 
he  said,  "  but,  since  I  have  escaped  it,  we  may 
go  on.  The  day  will  not  break  for  two  hours 
yet." 

"  Bully  for  you ! "  said  Smith,  patting  his 
back.     "  I  was  beginning  to  think  you  had  got 

280 


THE    CONTACT 

cold  feet.    Come  along  then !     If  you  feel  fit  for 
it,  you  may  bet  George  H.  won't  be  long  behind." 

He  took  up  the  bag  as  he  spoke,  threw  away 
the  cigar  he  had  been  smoking,  and  walked  on. 
When  the  light  came  they  must  move  more  cau- 
tiously; in  the  meantime,  he  thought  they  were 
fairly  safe.  In  ordinary  circumstances,  that  was 
perfectly  true. 

However,  the  sound  of  the  rock  slide  which 
had  terrified  Courvois  startled  Leon,  sleeping  in 
the  hut  above.  He  awoke  with  the  echoes  of  the 
fall  ringing  in  his  ears.  In  that  air,  sound  car- 
ried far,  one  peak  after  another  took  it  up.  Leon 
knew  what  the  sound  meant.  He  had  heard 
these  noises  before,  and  always  after  a  landslide. 

But  the  sound,  which  normally  would  not 
have  worried  him,  now  took  on  a  new  signifi- 
cance. Smith  had  visited  the  mountain  before, 
and  from  what  Seguien  had  said,  had  forgotten 
the  episode  in  the  hut.  Undeterred  by  that  recol- 
lection, he  might  come  again;  this  time  to  find 
them  unprepared.  The  mountain  landslides  were 
to  be  attributed  to  certain  definite  causes ;  heavy 
rains  percolating  through  the  upper  strata,  hur- 
ricanes of  a  force  sufficient  to  set  insecure  bowl- 
ders in  motion,  the  loosening  of  frost  upon  the 
shaly  rocks,  after  the  warmer  weather  of  sum- 
mer had  set  in.  These  causes  operated  fre- 
quently, to-night  they  were  absent. 

2S1 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

He  sat  up  in  his  hammock,  and  touched 
Rourke  who  was  sleeping  very  heavily  near  him. 
The  latter  sprang  up,  and  seized  his  hand,  but 
released  it  again.  "  I  thought  it  was  Smith,"  he 
explained,  with  a  half  laugh.     "  What  is  it?  " 

"  There  has  been  a  slide  lower  down  the 
mountain,"  said  Leon,  in  a  breathless  whisper. 
"  I  do  not  understand  it.  I  should  not  have  ex- 
pected it  on  a  night  like  this.  Is  it  possible  that 
some  one  has  been  climbing  the  track,  and  slipped 
on  one  of  the  loose  inclines  ? " 

"  I'm  afraid  it  looks  like  that,"  Rourke  agreed 
gloomily.  "  I  don't  think  it  has  happened  natu- 
rally. Sure,  that  beggar.  Smith,  may  have  made 
up  his  mind  to  call  here  again.  I  don't  like  to 
think  so,  but  there  it  is." 

Leon  left  his  hammock,  and  busied  himself 
with  the  lamp.  He  lighted  it  presently,  and  rolled 
hasty  cigarettes  for  himself  and  Rourke. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  then  ?  "  he  asked  rap- 
idly. "  Do  you  think  Madame  Roquille  will  have 
been  disturbed  by  the  noise  ?  " 

"  Not  she.  When  the  jfit's  on  her,  she  sleeps 
like  a  top.  We  need  not  think  of  getting  her 
away  to  the  other  side  of  the  mountain,  if  Smith 
is  really  near.  It's  too  late.  Besides,  ten  to  one, 
she'd  refuse  to  go,  and  scream  the  place  down." 
He  smoked  steadily  for  a  moment.,  and  went  on: 
"  No,  we'll  have  to  go  down  and  meet  this  fel- 

282 


THE    CONTACT 

low.  Take  the  pistol  you  got  from  me.  I  don't 
want  anyone  hurt,  but  if  Smith  asks  for  it  he'll 
get  it.  I  hope,  indeed,  there'll  be  a  quieter  way 
of  doing  it." 

Leon  shrugged :  "  What  you  please.  It  is  all 
one  to  me.  For  my  part,  I  think  we  might  wait 
for  him  at  that  little  platform  near  the  bend.  I 
shall  aim  at  the  middle  of  the  track,  and  pull  first 
if  he  shows  fight." 

"  That's  a  good  idea.  You  stay  there,  and 
I'll  hide  in  the  clump  of  brushwood  just  below. 
I  may  get  a  chance  to  collar  him  before  he  can 
get  his  hand  to  his  gun." 

Leon  pulled  out  his  pistol,  saw  that  it  was 
loaded,  and  held  up  the  lamp:  "  Bueno,  I  open 
the  door.  Are  you  out?  Well,  I  shall  extin- 
guish the  lamp.     We  must  go  down  quietly." 

He  followed  Rourke  into  the  darkness.  Both 
knew  the  track,  and  could  follow  it  with  their 
eyes  shut.  The  moonlight  helped  them  now,  and 
they  stole  down  almost  noiselessly.  Half  an 
hour's  swift  progress  brought  them  to  the  rock 
platform  at  the  bend  in  the  track.  Here,  Leon 
ensconced  himself,  stamped  on  his  cigarette,  and 
grasped  his  pistol.  A  few  yards  below,  a  clump 
of  bushes  had  their  roots  in  a  fissure,  and 
branched  out  to  the  verge  of  the  path.  In  the 
uncertain  light,  they  formed  an  ideal  place  of  con- 
cealment, an  excellent  ambush. 
19  283 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

Rourke  thrust  aside  the  thick  twigs,  and 
crouched  down.  He  waited  attentively.  A  new 
sound  came  to  his  ears.  He  heard  soft  footsteps, 
the  movement  of  loose  pebbles.  The  climbers 
were  still  some  distance  away,  but  coming  stead- 
ily nearer. 

Smith  was  somewhat  in  advance,  the  moon- 
light fell  upon  his  face.  Courvois  was  a  few 
paces  behind  him,  panting  a  good  deal,  unsteady 
in  his  movements,  but  keeping  stubbornly  to  his 
task,  Rourke  saw  them  now,  and  recognized 
Courvois,  with  surprise.  Smith  was  not  alone 
then!  But  what  did  the  cafe  proprietor  in  this 
galere?  Evidently  he  had  joined  forces  with 
Smith.  How  had  they  managed  to  travel  so  rap- 
idly? 

These  questions,  fruitless  and  unnecessary  as 
they  were,  flashed  through  his  mind.  But,  one 
or  two,  the  situation  was  unaltered.  They  must 
be  met.  He  trusted  to  Leon  to  hold  Courvois 
in  check,  and  determined  to  devote  his  attention 
to  Smith.  With  this  idea,  he  quietly  slipped  off 
his  poncho,  and  moved  nearer  to  the  path.  He 
bent  forward,  his  hands  ready  for  a  grip,  his 
elbows  slightly  crooked  outward. 

A  leaden-footed  minute  passed  before  Smith 
had  come  opposite  his  place  of  concealment. 
Luck  favored  him,  the  American  turned  slight- 
ly to  the  right,  to  address  some  whispered  remark 

284 


THE    CONTACT 

to  his  follower.  Rourke  thrust  aside  the  screen 
of  twigs,  and  sprang  upon  him.  His  hands 
wound  round  Smith's  wrists,  pinioning  them  to 
his  sides. 

Smith  shouted  to  Courvois,  kicked  at 
Rourke,  and  struggled  with  all  the  adroitness  of 
which  he  was  capable.  But  his  strength  was 
quite  disproportionate  to  his  zeal.  Rourke  threw 
him  heavily,  and  twisted  his  arms  behind  his 
back,  while  Courvois  danced  nervously  round 
them,  anxious  to  shoot,  but  afraid  to  wound  his 
partner.  In  the  end  it  is  probable  he  would 
have  shot  one  or  the  other,  in  a  frenzy  of  excite- 
ment, but  Leon  hurried  down  from  the  platform 
above,  and,  placing  the  muzzle  of  his  pistol  to 
the  Frenchman's  throat,  forced  him  to  relinquish 
his  weapon. 

"  There,  sefior,  you  are  better  w^ithout  that." 
he  said,  as  he  threw  it  from  him.  "  A  pistol  is 
a  dangerous  weapon  to  trust  to  a  child." 

Rourke  was  kneeling  on  Smith,  w4iile  he 
fastened  his  hands  behind  him  with  a  belt;  he 
pulled  him  to  his  feet  now,  and  laughed. 

"  Well,  George  H.,"  he  said  banteringly. 
"  So  you  thought  you'd  be  after  catching  me 
asleep,  did  you?  Oh,  you  star-spangled  double 
eagle!    Is  it  your  night  to  howl  or  is  it  mine?  " 

"  It's  yours,  d — n  you !  "  Smith  said  savagely. 
"  I've  just   one   word   for   you,   Mister    Paddy 

285 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

Rourke;  you've  not  done  me  yet.  If  you'd  let 
me  get  my  gun  out,  I'd  have  made  cold  meat  of 
you,  I  would  sure." 

"  Faith!  then,  I'm  not  partial  to  cowld  meat, 
George  EL  Ed  just  as  soon  put  you  down  with 
my  hands.  There's  a  little  cure  for  a  headache 
in  my  pocket,  too,  and  glad  you  should  be  that 
I  didn't  see  my  way  to  crack  your  skull  with  it — 
Hi,  Eeon !  Rope  up  that  other  fellow,  and  bring 
him  along.  Now  then,  George,  get  a  move  on 
you,  or  I  may  be  moving  you  on  without  discre- 
tion." 

Leon  complied,  and  between  them  they  drove 
Smith  and  Courvois  before  them  up  the  track. 
The  moon  was  still  up,  but  beginning  to  pale  in 
the  first  gray  light  of  day.  One  by  one,  the 
mountain  peaks  sprang  into  prominence,  the  sky 
rapidly  lightened,  grew  rosy  and  golden  from 
horizon  to  horizon.  The  plain  far  away  below 
them  was  hidden  by  the  ascending  mist,  until 
they  seemed  to  be  standing  on  an  islet  among 
gray  seas.  The  sierra  had  a  less  spectral  look 
by  day,  the  strangely  shaped  masses  of  rock,  the 
toothed  ridges  lost  their  menace ;  the  very  mouth 
of  the  pass  itself,  now  visible  above,  carried  no 
suggestion  of  the  terrible. 

The  ghosts  with  which  a  high-strung  fancy 
might  people  it  at  midnight  vanished  with  the 
beginning  of  prosaic  day.     It  seemed  impossible 

286 


THE    CONTACT 

that  this  very  place  was  the  reputed  haunt  of  a 
phantom  dog;  unbeHevable  and  preposterous. 
Smith,  walking  sullenly  between  his  captors,  won- 
dered that  he  had  ever  given  even  the  faintest 
attention  to  such  a  monstrous  idea.  He  puzzled 
his  brains  anew  to  remember  what  it  was  that  had 
prevented  him  from  carrying  his  former  expedi- 
tion to  a  successful  termination. 

He  looked  at  Leon  attentively.  Somehow,  he 
imagined  that  the  face  was  familiar  to  him. 
Where  had  he  seen  it  before?  Somewhere,  he 
was  sure.  His  look  was  so  obviously  puzzled 
that  the  mulatto  turned  to  him  with  a  smile. 

"  You  look  at  me  very  curiously,  sefior  ?  " 

"  Because  I've  seen  you  before  somewhere, 
my  friend,"  said  Smith  sulkily.  "  You  know 
that,  too,  I  think." 

"  Certainly,  sefior,"  responded  Leon,  with  an 
amused  glance  at  Rourke.  "  You  and  I  have 
spent  an  evening  together  on  this  very  moun- 
tain." 

Smith  stopped,  with  an  oath  on  his  lips: 
"When  was  that?" 

Rourke  nodded  to  Leon,  who  said  laughingly : 
"  That  was  about  a  month  ago.  You  came  up 
this  track,  and  spent  the  early  part  of  one  night 
in  my  hut  in  the  pass.  I  had  the  pleasure  of  nar- 
rating to  you  an  extraordinary  story,  with  re- 
gard to  a  phantom  dog.    The  seiior  must  accept 

287 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

my  apologies  for  having  disturbed  his  nerves  on 
that  occasion." 

Smith  remembered  the  incident  suddenly.  It 
had  come  back  to  him  at  last,  and  he  ground  his 
teeth  with  rage  when  he  reflected  how  he  had 
been  duped.  "  That's  a  lie ! "  he  said  hotly. 
"  There  was  only  an  old  woman  in  the  hut.'' 

Leon  waved  his  hand  airily :  "  I  am  not  often 
called  an  old  woman  without  resenting  it.  On 
the  present  occasion,  I  permit  the  seilor  to  say  so. 
I  assure  him  that,  with  the  help  of  some  woman's 
garments,  and  in  a  bad  light,  I  was  able  to  de- 
ceive him." 

"  What  did  I  tell  you,  Courvois  ?  "  said  Smith 
to  his  companion,  who  stood  silently,  staring  at 
the  ground.  "  I  told  you  the  fellow  had  made  up 
the  story  to  scare  folks  off  the  mountain." 

"  He  certainly  frightened  you,  monsieur," 
said  Courvois  acidly,  for  he  was  in  a  mood  to 
blame  his  partner  for  leading  him  into  this  hole. 

"  I'm  not  denying  it,"  said  Smith  sharply. 
"  What  I  do  say  is  this :  I  remember  now  that  a 
dog,  or  some  big  beast,  did  come  into  the  hut." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Leon,  again  looking  at 
Rourke,  who  continued  to  smile  placidly.  "  It 
was  necessary  to  heighten  the  illusion,  and  we 
were  wise  enough  to  prepare  everything  before- 
hand. The  sefior  shall  see  the  dog  presently,  if 
he  wishes.    Late  on  the  night  of  the  senor's  visit, 

288 


THE    CONTACT 

the  hound  was  let  out  of  the  place  where  it  sleeps, 
and  entered  the  hut  through  a  sliding  door  in  the 
wall  near  my  pallet.  A  string  pulled  sharply  will 
open  this  door,  for  it  is  a  very  simple  contrivance. 
Surely  the  sefior  does  not  think  that  we  should 
spread  a  story  for  a  certain  purpose,  and  do  noth- 
ing to  confirm  it?  Ay!  the  dog  often  ran  loose 
on  the  mountain  at  night,  and  his  howls  have 
been  heard  by  the  people  of  the  plain  below,  who 
were  brave  enough  to  venture  up  the  track." 

Smith's  sense  of  humor  saved  him.  Even 
though  the  joke  told  against  himself,  he  saw  the 
amusing  side  of  the  episode.  To  Leon's  surprise, 
his  face  cleared,  and  he  laughed  dryly.  Cour- 
vois,  too,  was  amazed. 

"  Well,  sonny,  I  admit  that  you  gave  me 
cold  feet  with  that  yarn  of  yours,  and  the  joke 
is  on  me.  But  if  any  man  had  told  me  before 
that  I'd  have  been  taken  in  so  easy,  I'd  have 
handed  that  fellow  a  friendly  punch,  I  would 
sure.  So  you  tell  me  you  were  only  lying  doggo 
on  that  pallet  of  yours,  pulling  the  string  of  your 
rabbit-hutch  to  let  in  the  phantom.  Well,  I  call 
that  right  smart !  " 

Rourke  walked  up  to  Smith,  and,  putting  a 
hand  in  his  pocket,  produced  a  heavy  caliber 
Smith  &  Wesson :  "  I  see  you  came  '  heeled,' 
George,  so  I'm  after  thinking  you  came  on  busi- 
ness.     You,    and    Courvois    here,    thought   you 

289 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

would  come  and  jump  the  claim  I  told  you  about. 
What  do  you  think  they  would  do  to  a  man  in 
the  Western  States  if  they  caught  him  at  that  ?  " 

"  Shoot  him  up,"  Smith  admitted. 

Rourke  nodded,  and  motioned  to  Leon: 
"  Bring  your  man  up  the  track  to  the  next  bend. 
I'll  see  to  Smith." 

They  brought  their  prisoners  presently  to  a 
place  where,  from  the  edge  of  the  path,  the 
ground  fell  away  sheer  for  a  distance  of  two 
hundred  feet.  Smith  stood  silent;  Courvois 
struggled  to  free  himself,  and  shouted  despair- 
ingly for  help.     Rourke  surveyed  both  grimly. 

"  Listen,  both  of  you,"  he  said,  sternly.  "  You 
thought  I  had  a  claim  up  here,  and  you  came 
with  arms  in  your  hands  to  seize  it.  That  is  the 
plain  fact.  Now,  what  am  I  to  do  with  you? 
If  I  let  you  go,  how  am  I  to  know  but  you'll 
turn  on  me,  and  play  me  some  nasty  trick.  If 
I  have  the  pair  of  you  dropped  quietly  down 
here,  you  wouldn't  worry  me  any  more.  What 
have  you  got  to  say  about  it  ?  " 

"  It's  on  to  you,  sir,"  said  Smith,  with  a  tight 
mouth. 

Rourke  looked  steadily  at  Courvois,  then 
signed  to  Leon.  He  himself  cut  the  belt  binding 
Smith's  hands  behind  his  back,  and  presented  the 
revolver  to  him,  butt  first.  - 

"  Smith,"  he  said  quietly,  "  whatever  you  may 
290 


THE    CONTACT 

be,  you're  no  coward.  It  would  be  a  pity  to 
waste  you  on  the  vultures.  Here's  your  gun 
back  to  you.  Leon,  let  Courvois  free,  if  you 
please." 

Smith  looked  at  the  revolver,  and  smiled  odd- 
ly. He  chafed  his  wrists  to  restore  the  circula- 
tion, and  finally  put  out  his  hand  for  the  weapon. 
Leon,  meanwhile,  was  untying  Courvois,  and 
staring  perplexedly  at  his  friend. 

"  Rourke,"  said  Smith  softly,  "  I  thank  you 
for  this  little  tool.  I've  had  it  a  good  while,  and 
was  considerable  set  on  it,  I  admit.  But  " — he 
dropped  the  pistol  and  kicked  it  over  on  the  rocks 
below — "  I  have  no  further  use  for  it." 

Rourke  nodded,  and  turned  again  to  Leon: 
"  I  suppose  there's  something  in  the  larder  we 
could  invite  these  gentlemen  to  share  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  Leon  replied,  in  a  courteous 
tone. 

"  Will  you  follow  me,  then  ?  "  said  Rourke, 
addressing  the  others.  "  It  isn't  a  long  walk  to 
the  hut." 

Smith  went  without  a  word.  Courvois  looked 
about  him,  shrugged,  and  followed  the  others. 
They  reached  the  hut  presently,  and  Rourke  took 
them  round  to  the  rear. 

"  You  didn't  see  this  little  kennel,  Smith,"  he 
said,  pointing  to  a  small  pent  shed  built  against 
the  timber  wall  of  the  cabin.    "  Your  friend,  the 

291 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

phantom,  lives  there  by  day,  being  a  wolfhound, 
and  rather  massive,  not  to  say  elephantine,  for  a 
lap  dog.  He's  quite  quiet  till  you  give  the  word, 
and  then  he'd  face  man  or  beast,  of  any  size  or 
shape.  Unless  you  would  like  to  see  him,  I 
should  be  glad  to  have  you  listen  to  a  tale  of 
mine.  You  tried  to  play  me  a  nasty  trick,  but  I 
own  that  it  was  me  started  the  lying.  I  owe  you 
an  explanation." 

"  We'll  hear  it,  sonny,  we'll  hear  it,"   said 
Smith. 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE    LEGACY 

SMITH  settled  himself  comfortably  on  a  flat 
bowlder,  Courvois,  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, leaned  against  the  wall  of  the  hut. 
He  seemed  unusually  perturbed,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other  with  an  expression  of  gloomy 
suspicion.  His  beady  eyes  were  shifty,  constant- 
ly wavering.  It  was  evident  that  he  did  not 
welcome  Rourke's  coming  explanation,  but  rather 
feared  that  it  might  contain  details  which  would 
prejudice  his  own  position. 

Rourke  ignored  him  pointedly,  and  addressed 
himself  to  Smith. 

"  To  make  a  long  story  short,"  he  said,  "  I 
bluffed  you.  I  am  not  a  prospector.  All  I  know 
about  mines  I  learned  from  a  man  called  Ro- 
quille,  and  he  was  more  crazy  about  mining  than 
any  man  I  ever  knew.  It  wasn't  much  knowledge 
he  had  about  it,  either,  but  he  was  not  quite  right 
in  the  head,  you  know.  He  wanted  to  get  rich 
quick,  to  carry  out  some  scheme  of  revenge  he 
had  in  his  mind." 

293 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

Courvois  put  a  trembling-  hand  to  his  mouth, 
and  coughed  sHghtly.  Rourke  had  turned  shght- 
ly  so  as  to  face  him,  and  observed  that  the  color 
was  gradually  fading  from  his  face.  Smith  had 
not  noticed  that.  He  nodded  for  Rourke  to  pro- 
ceed. 

"  When  I  first  came  to  Santola,"  Rourke  went 
on  quietly,  "  I  called  on  Monsieur  Courvois,  and 
mentioned  Roquille.  He  was  agitated,  and  anx- 
ious to  discover  if  Roquille  had  spoken  to  me 
of  him.  He  tried  to  pump  me,  indeed,  and  never 
knew  I  saw  through  his  questions.  I  could  see 
that  he  was  afraid  I  had  learned  something  to 
his  disadvantage.  He  may  have  thought  I  was 
bent  on  blackmail " 

Rourke  stopped  to  light  a  cigarette;  he  con- 
tinued slowly : 

"  It  was  this  way,  you  see.  I  met  Roquille  a 
little  more  than  four  years  ago.  He  picked  me  up 
near  Salar,  to  the  other  side  of  the  mountains. 
I  had  had  a  rumpus  with  a  fellow  there,  and  got 
knifed  coming  home  one  evening.  It  wasn't 
much — a  deep  cut  in  the  shoulder.  He  took  me 
to  his  house,  and  ntirsed  me — I  was  grateful. 
You  see,  I  had  lost  a  lot  of  blood  when  he  came 
upon  me,  and  I  might  have  died  in  the  road  there. 
He  had  a  strange  household " 

Courvois  opened  his  lips  as  if  to  speak,  but 
sighed  deeply  and  watched  Rourke's  face. 

294 


THE    LEGACY 

"  His  wife  was  mad,"  said  Rourke,  bitterly. 
*'  An  awful  case.  At  times  she  had  fits  of  homi- 
cidal mania.  As  I  told  you,  poor  Roquille 
was  not  quite  right  himself.  They'd  had  trouble 
enough — "  He  held  the  cigarette  between  his  fin- 
gers, and  stared  at  it  for  a  moment.  "  Anyway, 
Courvois  here  was  uneasy,  when  he  heard  that 
I  knew  Roquille.  I  did  not  want  to  frighten  him 
ofif,  so  I  told  him  that  I  had  only  met  Roquille 
some  months  back,  and  pretended  that  I  didn't 
know  anything  of  the  poor  fellow's  story.  He 
asked  me  how  Roquille  had  died.  I  told  him  the 
truth.  He  had  contracted  malaria  before  I  knew 
him,  living  in  some  marshy  place.  Of  course,  it 
was  recurrent,  and  seemed  to  come  back  stronger 
every  time.  I  told  Courvois  that  he  was  delirious 
at  the  last,  and  that  put  the  fear  of  death  in  our 
friend  here,  thinking  that  perhaps  he  had 
blabbed,  when  he  was  not  responsible  for  himself. 
It  wasn't  so,  for  I'd  heard  the  story  years  back." 

Smith  intervened :  "  What's  this  to  do  with 
the  claim?  " 

"  Everything.  I  can  only  tell  the  story  in  my 
own  way." 

"  It  is  all  one  lie !  "  Courvois  said  suddenly, 
savagely. 

"  Smith,  keep  your  eye  on  that  fellow  there. 
You  can  judge  between  us,"  Rourke  remarked, 
ignoring  him.     "  Roquille  came  first  from  Mar- 

295 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

tinique.  He  was  a  planter  there,  had  a  nice  little 
estate,  a  good  living,  and  the  prettiest  wife  in  the 
Islands.  Courvois  here,  if  you  ask  him,  will  tell 
you  that  he  himself  is  a  Frenchman,  and  used  to 
live  in  Paris.  That  is  not  true.  He  had  an  estate 
next  to  Roquille's " 

"  Jamais  de  la  vie — never !  "  Courvois  said 
distinctly. 

"  The  next  plantation,"  Rourke  repeated. 
"  And  he  pretended  to  be  a  friend  of  Roquille's. 
He  met  the  pretty  wife,  and,  from  the  first,  perse- 
cuted her  with  his  attentions.  She  kept  silence 
about  that,  for  it  wasn't  the  kind  of  thing  a  mod- 
est young  wife  likes  to  talk  over  with  her  hus- 
band. Besides,  he  was  a  friend.  He  got  no 
encouragement,  for  she  was  devoted  to  her  hus- 
band, and  a  good  woman.  Did  that  stop  him? — 
No,  faith!  it  made  him  the  more  eager.  He 
never  relaxed  his  efforts,  but  seized  every  oppor- 
tunity to  make  proposals,  that  were  a  shame  to 
him,  and  an  affront  to  her.  Look  at  him  now! 
You've  seen  a  rat  in  a  trap " 

Smith  looked  sharply  at  Courvois :  "  Go  on." 

*'  Well,  he  couldn't  have  her  for  love  or 
money,  so  he  went  another  way  about  it.  He 
tried  to  decoy  her  on  board  a  ship;  the  captain 
being  a  friend  of  his.  It  was  the  Trois  Jolies 
Femmes,  out  of  Havre.  That  attempt  failed, 
and  he  turned  to  ideas  of  revenge.    Roquille  and 

296 


THE    LEGACY 

his  wife  had  a  baby  girl,  about  two  I  should  say 
she  was  at  that  time.  The  father  and  mother  just 
lived  in  the  light  of  her." 

"And  Courvois?"     Smith  was  frowning. 

"  Courvois  had  a  weapon  ready  to  his  hand. 
If  you  know  the  Islands,  you  know  that  the  plan- 
tations are  mostly  worked  by  niggers.  They're 
excitable  people,  and  easily  worked  up.  Courvois 
went  among  them  quietly :  he  found  them  griev- 
ances where  none  existed.  He  told  them  that 
Roquille  was  a  hard  master,  and  a  bad  master. 
And  he  gave  them  rum.  The  rest's  easily  told. 
The  niggers  rose  one  night,  burned  down  the 
plantation  buildings,  and  attacked  the  house. 
Roquille  was  away  at  the  time,  but  his  wife  was 
there,  and  was  roughly  treated,  while  trying  to 
save  the  baby  girl  from  the  rioters.  They  found 
her  next  morning  near  the  house,  wandering  up 
and  down  distracted.  She  was  looking  for  the 
child " 

He  broke  off  suddenly,  and  gripped  Smith's 
arm :  "  Easy.  Fm  responsible  for  him.  Don't 
touch  him !  " 

Smith  had  advanced  suddenly  upon  Courvois, 
his  hands  twitching.  He  resumed  his  seat  now, 
and  looked  at  Rourke. 

"  She  never  saw  the  child  again.  Her  hus- 
band came  back  to  find  her — mad.  He  looked  for 
Courvois  then,  but  could  not  find  him.     He  had 

297 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

disappeared,  and  it  turned  out  afterwards  that 
his  estate  was  mortgaged  to  the  hilt.  I  heard  all 
that  from  Roquille  himself." 

Courvois  protested  wildly:  "It  is  not  true. 
Do  not  believe  him,  Monsieur  Smith,  he  is  anx- 
ious to  deceive  you  again." 

"  He  won't,"  Smith  observed  contemptuously. 

"  When  Roquille  discovered  that  his  enemy 
had  left  Martinique,  he  made  inquiries  to  find 
out  where  he  had  gone.  The  French  steamer 
had  called  again  and  had  left  for  Monte  Video. 
So  Roquille  packed  bag  and  baggage,  took  his 
wife  with  him,  and  sailed  for  South  America. 
He  wasn't  in  the  same  state  as  his  wife,  but  he 
was  certainly  not  mentally  normal.  He  had  only 
two  ideas:  one  that  he  could  find  a  silver  mine, 
which  would  provide  him  with  funds  to  prosecute 
his  search  all  over  the  world;  the  other,  that  he 
would  find  Courvois,  and  kill  him — murder's 
murder,  and  I  don't  justify  it,  but  Roquille  had 
provocation,  if  any  man  ever  had.  Anyway,  his 
two  ideas  never  came  to  anything.  The  silver 
mine  did  not  come  his  way,  and  he  did  not  find 
Courvois.  He  lived  in  Salar  for  a  while,  until, 
one  day,  his  wife  took  one  of  her  bad  turns,  and 
attacked  a  peaceable  half-breed  who  was  walking 
past  the  house.  They  put  her  in  the  calabozo  for 
that,  having  no  asylum  handy,  and  there  they 

298 


THE    LEGACY 

kept  her.  That  was  a  while  before  Roquille 
picked  me  up." 

He  puffed  at  his  cigarette  for  a  moment,  then 
threw  it  from  him:  "  I'm  coming  to  the  end  now. 
We  concerted  a  plan,  the  husband  and  I,  to  re- 
lease the  unfortunate  woman.  The  calabozo  was 
timber  built,  we  broke  in  one  night,  and  carried 
her  off.  Leon,  who's  in  the  hut  now,  was  Ro- 
quille's  servant,  and  the  three  of  us  made  tracks 
for  the  mountains.  We've  stayed  here,  ever 
since ;  Roquille  prospecting,  finding  an  odd  bit  of 
silver  now  and  again,  but  nothing  that  would  pay 
to  work.  We  had  a  hard  time  to  live,  but  we 
managed  till  about  a  month  before  I  came  to  San- 
tola.     Then  the  poor  fellow  died." 

"  He  never  knew  that  Courvois  was  living 
near  at  hand?  " 

"  Never.  The  silver  prospecting  had  become 
a  kind  of  mania  with  him.  When  he  was  gone,  I 
came  across  country  to  Santola  in  search  of  a 
job,  so  that  I  could  get  a  bit  of  money  to  send  up 
here  for  Leon.  I  heard  of  the  Cafe  Fleur  de  Lys 
from  a  peon  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town." 

Leon  had  come  to  the  door  of  the  hut,  and 
stood  watching  them  silently.    Rourke  continued : 

"  When  Roquille  was  in  his  last  delirium,  he 

kept  muttering  and  talking  of  *  Honest  Courvois.' 

If  you'd  heard  the  bitterness,  the  contempt  of  his 

voice,   you  would  never   forget   it.      Before  he 

20  299 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

went,  he  made  me  promise  that  I  would  search 
out  Courvois,  and  revenge  him.  I  never  thought 
to  come  upon  the  fellow,  and  promised  readily 
enough.  When  I  did  come  on  him,  by  accident, 
I  was  in  a  fix.  I  never  favored  killing  people  in 
cold  blood,  as  some  of  them  do  here.  It  wasn't 
really  my  quarrel  either.  But  a  scheme  came  into 
my  head  at  once.  The  woman  was  with  Leon  up 
here ;  they  had  no  way  of  living,  and  I  was  afraid 
to  bring  her  down  to  the  plains  for  fear  she  might 
break  out  again.  She  does  sometimes  still.  Leon 
there,  has  a  scar  on  his  arm  he  could  show  you. 
Well,  I  summed  up  Courvois.  I  knew  he  would 
lose  blood  rather  than  money.  So  I  bluffed  him 
with  the  story  of  a  claim.  I  meant  to  sell  it  him, 
take  his  money,  and  get  back  to  the  hut.  I  got  at 
you  only  that  he  might  think  the  claim  was  genu- 
ine.    I  wasn't  after  your  money " 

"  But  you  refused  his  offer,"  said  Smith. 
Both  ignored  Courvois,  who  remained  motion- 
less and  silent,  leaning  against  the  wall  of  the 
hut. 

Rourke  spoke  softly :  "  I  did.  You  see,  I  fell 
in  love  with  Jeanne,  and,  not  knowing  that  he 
might  not  be  her  father,  I  couldn't  make  up  my 
mind  to  go  on  with  my  plan " 

Courvois  started.     Smith  got  up  quickly. 

"Isn't  he  her  father?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Sometimes,  I  am  sure  he  is 
300 


THE    LEGACY 

not.  She's  not  like  him ;  but  she  is  hke  what  Ma- 
dame Roquille  might  have  been  in  her  young 
days.  I  sketched  her  once,  side  by  side  with 
madame,  and  Jeanne  thought  one  was  a  carica- 
ture of  herself.  Still  I  wasn't  sure;  I  could  not 
be  sure.    So  I  came  away." 

Leon  came  out  from  the  doorway,  and  bal- 
anced his  pistol  in  an  open  palm.  Rourke's  eyes 
lit  up,  he  cocked  the  weapon,  and  advanced  upon 
Courvois.  "  I'll  give  you  a  minute !  "  he  said, 
very  quietly.  "  Is  Jeanne  the  daughter  of  the 
woman  you  wronged  ?     Yes  or  no  ?  " 

Courvois  shrank  away,  and  cried  out :  "  Spare 
me.'^ 

"  I  will,"  said  Rourke  slowly.  "  I'll  leave  you 
to  torment  yourself  with  the  thought  of  what 
you've  done.  But  you  must  answer  my  question. 
Yes,  or  no?    I  shall  count." 

Courvois  had  already  realized  that  it  would 
be  useless  for  him  to  attempt  to  escape.  Even 
without  arms,  they  outnumbered  him,  and  where 
could  he  fly,  in  any  case?  The  only  way  lay  by 
the  open  track.     He  endeavored  to  temporize. 

"  Monsieur,  I  assure  you —  What  is  this 
about  Jeanne  ?    I  do  not  understand." 

"  Then  you  had  better  make  an  effort," 
Rourke  went  on  counting  calmly,  "  half  your  time 
has  gone." 

Courvois  gave  one  wild  glance  about  him, 
301 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

then  stammered  out  his  confession :  "  Monsieur, 
you  are  right.    Jeanne  is  not  my  daughter." 

Rourke  smiled  grimly :  "  You  acknowledge 
that,  before  these  witnesses  ?  Whose  daughter  is 
she?     Quick  now!  " 

"  She — she  is  the  daughter  of  Monsieur  Ro- 
quille." 

Rourke  threw  down  the  pistol,  and  laughed 
out  of  sheer  joy:  "Smith,  you  hear  that;  and 
you,  Leon.  Just  a  couple  more  questions,  Cour- 
vois,  and  then  I  am  done:  Isn't  it  true  that  you 
kept  most  of  your  money  in  that  statue  of  the  late 
lamented  King  Louis?  " 

Courvois  trembled  with  new  anxiety :  "  It  is 
mine — mine.  I  made  it  by  my  own  work.  Do 
not  tell  me  that  it  has  been  taken ! " 

"It  hasn't!"  said  Rourke  shortly.  "I 
guessed  what  was  in  that  image  some  time  ago. 
Do  you  think  I  would  steal  your  miserable  sav- 
ings? Though,  indeed,  you  deserve  to  lose  more 
than  that,  for  you  ruined  poor  Roquille.  Come! 
did  you  not  carry  the  child  away  from  Marti- 
nique ?  " 

Courvois  tried  a  desperate  bluff :  "  Monsieur, 
as  to  that  you  are  mistaken.  You  have  said  that 
Roquille  was  not  quite  in  his  right  mind.  That 
is    true.      It   was   his   obsession   to   think   that 

I " 

302 


THE    LEGACY 

"  Hold  your  lying  tongue !  "  cried  Smith,  step- 
ping up  to  him  menacingly. 

But  Rourke  drew  him  aside.  "  We  shall  see, 
Courvois,"  he  said  contemptuously,  and  turned 
to  Leon.     "  Go!  fetch  Madame  Roquille." 

"  I  will  not  see  her !  "  Courvois  looked  about 
him  anxiously.  ''  You  are  all  in  a  conspiracy  to 
ruin  me.  What  could  this  mad  woman  tell  you 
but  lies — what  else  ?  " 

Rourke  held  Smith  by  the  arm.  ''  Here  comes 
madame,"  he  whispered. 

Leon  had  gone  a  short  distance  up  the  pass, 
and  now  returned,  leading  a  woman  by  the  hand. 
She  was  exceedingly  frail,  thin,  and  delicate- 
looking.  But,  despite  her  paleness,  her  gaunt- 
ness,  one  could  see  that  she  had  once  been  a  wom- 
an of  great  beauty.  She  walked  passively  beside 
the  mulatto,  her  eyes  bent  absently  on  the 
ground,  her  hand  clasped  Leon's  loosely.  She 
did  not  look  up,  even  when  she  found  herself  in 
the  center  of  the  little  group. 

Rourke  touched  her  gently  on  the  arm. 

"  Madame,  do  you  recognize  this  man?  "  He 
pointed  to  Courvois. 

The  latter  was  ashy  pale.  Lie  tried  to  con- 
ceal himself  beside  Smith,  who  stepped  away 
from  him.  Leon  also  retreated,  leaving  him 
standing  alone. 

The  woman  raised  her  eyes  slowly.  She  did 
303 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

not  seem  very  agitated ;  but  her  expression,  every 
line  of  her  face,  showed  that  she  knew  who  he 
was,  that  she  remembered  her  old  enemy.  Smith 
and  Courvois  marveled  at  her  restraint.  They 
did  not  notice  the  cunning  look  which  had  crept 
into  her  eyes.  She  walked  straight  up  to  Cour- 
yois,  and  stared  at  him  silently. 

Then,  at  last,  "  What  have  you  done  with 
my  baby?  "  she  asked  slowly. 

Courvois  backed  away,  whimpering:  "It  is 
some  mistake " 

"  You  took  her  away,  you  know,"  Madame 
Roquille  continued  softly.  "  Tell  me  what  you 
have  done  with  her  ?  " 

He  wrung  his  hands :  "  I — I  know  nothing 
of  her." 

It  happened  in  a  moment.  Madame  Roquille 
dropped  her  eyes,  and  stared  down  at  her  feet. 
Rourke's  pistol  lay  there,  just  where  he  had 
thrown  it  down.  The  others  were  too  interested 
in  the  little  scene  to  observe  the  intent  look  she 
bent  upon  the  weapon.  Courvois,  too,  stared  at 
it,  as  if  fascinated.  His  hands  were  raised  to  the 
level  of  his  waist,  the  palms  stiff,  the  fingers 
hanging  limp.  The  woman  bent  with  extraordi- 
nary rapidity.  Smith,  Rourke,  and  Leon  sprang 
to  seize  her  almost  simultaneously.  A  thin 
wreath  of  smoke  floated  up ;  the  sound  of  a  sharp 

304 


THE    LEGACY 

explosion  rang  out,  and  was  carried  from  peak  to 
peak. 

"  My  heavens !  he's  gone !  "  said  Rourke, 
bending  over  Courvois,  who  lay  against  the  wall 
of  the  hut,  where  he  had  fallen.  He  tore  aside 
the  poncho,  and  laid  a  questioning  hand  upon  the 
man's  breast. 

Leon  had  no  difficulty  in  securing  the  weapon. 
Madame  Roquille  gave  it  up  readily,  and  smiled 
into  his  face  quite  childishly. 

"  Did  he  tell  you  what  he  did  with  my  baby?  " 
she  asked. 

Smith  released  the  arm  he  held,  and,  turning 
away,  moved  off  a  little,  where  he  stood  with  his 
back  to  them,  staring  out  across  the  hills. 

Rourke  called  to  him,  "  Smith!  will  you  have 
a  look  at  him?  I  don't  think  anything  can  be 
done." 

He  returned  then,  and  examined  the  prostrate 
man.  "  No,  sonny,"  he  said  gently.  "  Courvois 
has  slipped  us  this  time.  He  got  it  just  over  the 
heart." 

Leon  was  already  leading  Madame  Roquille 
up  the  track.  She  leaned  heavily  upon  him,  and 
her  feet  strayed  unsteadily.  He  conveyed  her 
with  difficulty  to  a  second  cabin,  which  lay  hidden 
behind  a  bend  farther  up  the  pass,  and,  pushing- 
open  the  door,  took  her  within. 

"  She's  cut  the  knot,  anyway,"  said  Smith  to 

305 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

his  companion.  "  But  who'd  have  thought  a 
woman  could  be  so  quick !  " 

"  What's  done  can't  be  undone."  Rourke  was 
looking  down  at  Courvois.  "  I  would  never  have 
brought  her  down  here,  if  I  had  known  this  would 
happen.    You  believe  me?  " 

"  I  do  sure !  Without  seeming  particularly 
callous,  I  don't  see  that  it  matters  much.  He 
mayn't  have  been  fit  to  die,  but  he  was  surely  not 
fit  to  live.  We  must  get  him  buried  offhand,  and 
leave  this  darned  place  as  soon  as  can  be." 

''But  Madame  Roquille?" 

"  She  must  come,  too.  There's  no  other  way 
for  it.  Anyhow,  I  am  not  going  to  camp  out  in 
this  location  a  moment  longer  than  I  can  help.  It 
surely  gives  me  the  creeps." 

Between  them,  they  lifted  Courvois,  and  car- 
ried him  down  the  track  to  a  place  where  the 
stones  lay  thickly  scattered  in  a  little  cuplike  de- 
pression. 

"  We'll  put  him  here,"  said  Smith,  "  and  pile 
the  stones  on  him.  We  haven't  got  anything  to 
dig  with,  and  those  bits  of  rock  will  keep  him 
from  fellows  like  that." 

As  he  spoke,  he  laid  the  body  down,  and 
pointed  to  a  couple  of  vultures  that  circled  high 
up  above  them. 

They  finished  their  task  as  rapidly  as  possi- 
ble, and  went  back  to  the  hut,  without  exchanging 

306 


THE    LEGACY 

a  word.  Leon  met  them  there,  and  beckoned 
them  to  follow  him. 

"  She  is  going,  sefiores,"  he  said,  crossing 
himself  reverently,  and  doffing  his  sombrero. 
''  It  has  come  at  last.  She  was  frail  always  of 
late.    The  shock  of  this  has  finished  the  work." 

They  went  with  him  to  the  door  of  the  second 
hut,  and  Smith  stopped. 

"  I'll  wait  for  you  here,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I 
don't  want  to  see  her." 

They  came  out  to  him  again  before  half  an 
hour  had  passed,  and  Rourke  shook  hands  with 
him  silently.  Leon  left  them  together,  and  went 
down  to  the  lower  cabin  to  release  the  dog. 

"  We'll  not  talk  of  this,  sonny,"  Smith  ob- 
served, sympathetically.  "  It's  over  now,  and  all 
the  palaver  in  the  world  won't  mend  it.  What 
about  your  plans?  There's  this  girl  of  yours  at 
Santola.  I  wish  you  happiness.  You're  white 
right  through,  and  if  any  man  says  otherwise, 
he'll  have  to  say  it  to  George  H.  Come !  Cour- 
vois  must  have  left  a  deal  of  money,  and  that  will 
fall  to  mademoiselle.  There's  that  in  the  statue, 
you  were  talking  about,  and  the  cafe  itself  is  a 
valuable  property.  There's  no  bar  to  your  mar- 
riage that  I  can  see." 

Rourke  looked  thoughtful.  "  I  wouldn't  take 
that  money  if  it  was  the  last  in  the  world,"  he 

307 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

said.  "  It  can  stay  where  it  was  put.  I  am  sure 
Jeanne  wouldn't  have  me  touch  it." 

Smith  clapped  him  on  the  back :  "  I  said  you 
were  white,  and  you  are !  Between  you  and  me, 
I'd  have  thought  little  of  you,  if  you  had  taken 
it.  Well,  I've  a  proposition  for  you.  This  busi- 
ness of  the  claim  was  only  a  small  affair  to  me. 
I  took  it  up  because  I  never  let  anything  beat  me. 
I've  got  investments  of  all  kinds — railroad  scrip, 
industrials  in  Pennsylvania,  real  estate  in  Rhode 
Island.  There  is  a  big  ranch  I  was  negotiating 
about  when  you  came  on  the  scene,  and  I  want 
you  to  do  me  a  favor.  I'll  be  real  affronted  if 
you  won't." 

"What's  that?" 

"  Well,  I  want  you  to  manage  it  for  me. 
YouVe  got  a  proper  headpiece,  and  you've  got 
nerve,  and  you're  a  straight  man.  I  won't  offer 
you  a  fancy  salary,  but  just  the  market  value  of 
the  work,  and  a  small  commission  on  the  profits. 
Will  you  take  it  ?  Don't  hand  me  out  any  Quix- 
otic poppycock,  but  just  consider  it  from  a  busi- 
ness point  of  view." 

He  left  Rourke  alone,  and  went  down  to  meet 
Leon,  who  was  leading  the  wolfhound  on  a- raw 
hide  thong.  "  Say,  is  this  your  tame  bear?  "  he 
asked,  smiling.  "  Well,  he  don't  trouble  the  den- 
tists a  cent,  I'll  be  bound.     He's  a  mighty  fine 

308 


THE    LEGACY 

specimen  of  the  genus  cano.  Good  dog!  You 
seem  to  have  cottoned  to  George  H.  right  away." 

"  Smith,"  said  Rourke,  when  he  returned,  "  I 
have  been  thinking  your  proposition  over.  It's 
kind  of  you.  More  than  I  expected,  and  more 
than  I  deserve.  But  I  can  do  it.  I'll  make  the 
place  pay,  and  earn  my  money  every  day  Fm 
at  it.    You're  a  good  sort,  Smith." 

They  shook  hands  again,  and  Smith  turned 
the  subject  modestly:  "  Well,  we're  finished  here. 
We  must  just  fasten  the  door  on  poor  madame, 
and  move  back  to  Santola.  Where's  that  skew- 
bald of  yours  ?  " 

"  Tethered  farther  up  the  pass.  There's  a 
mule,  too.  Bring  them  along,  Leon,  will  you? 
We  shall  start  at  once." 

"  Certainly,  senor  mio.  I  am  with  you  in 
that,"  said  Leon. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

THE   BETTERED    TIME 

THE  return  to  Santola  was  accomplished 
without  mishap.  The  mule  they  had 
cheaply  disposed  of  to  the  owner  of  the 
pulperia  at  Copar,  but  Rourke  retained  the  skew- 
bald mare  for  his  own  use  upon  the  ranch  which 
Smith  had  arranged  for  him  to  manage. 

Leon  was  to  go  with  him  as  foreman.  That 
was  part  of  the  bargain,  to  which  the  American 
readily  acceded.  The  matter  had  been  thor- 
oughly talked  out  while  they  were  returning ;  the 
questions  of  stock,  agricultural  plant,  and  the 
troublesome  problem  of  local  labor  effectively 
settled.  Rourke  was  quick  to  see  to  the  heart  of 
a  matter,  and  fitted  by  temperament  to  control 
men.  He  had  that  happy  knack  of  saying  hard 
things  in  a  soft  voice,  which  every  efficient  com- 
mander of  men  must  possess. 

He  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  advise 
Jeanne  of  his  coming.  Lovers  are  strange  crea- 
tures, and  arrange  their  exits  and  their  entrances 
in  a  manner  puzzling  to  those  uninitiated  into 

310 


THE    BETTERED    TIME 

the  great  mystery  of  love.  He  did  not  even  call 
upon  Jeanne  immediately  he  had  arrived  in  San- 
tola.  Perhaps,  like  a  gastronome,  he  reserved 
this  supremest  pleasure  for  the  last. 

Meanwhile,  he  and  Leon  stayed  with  Smith  at 
the  big  house  in  the  Calle  Huelva.  The  position 
of  ranch  manager  had  not  been  offered  him  as  a 
sinecure.  He  took  his  prospective  duties  serious- 
ly, and,  with  his  host,  settled  down  to  put  upon 
paper  the  details  they  had  already  threshed  out. 
A  mass  of  figures,  and  arrangements,  kept  them 
busy  until  near  midnight.  Smith  intended  to 
carry  the  thing  out  on  a  large  scale.  He  contem- 
plated the  importing  of  pedigree  cattle,  the  estab- 
lishment of  a  refrigerating  plant,  the  erection  of 
workshops  and  bakehouses,  for  the  cheaper  work- 
ing of  the  estate. 

He  thought  in  large  sums,  and  Rourke  found 
himself  wondering  what  had  brought  such  a 
man  to  Santola.  Smith  seemed  to  divine  his 
thoughts,  and  explained  briefly  the  reasons  for 
his  residence  in  the  sleepy  town.  He  had  the 
option  to  purchase  a  controlling  interest  in  a 
company  which  had  been  formed  to  extend  the 
railways  of  the  province;  linking  up  the  smaller 
towns  to  the  trunk  line.  A  short  residence  in  the 
capital  had  shown  him  that  a  thousand  hangers- 
on  of  the  Government  overflowed  his  house  at  all 
hours,  expecting  favors  or  bribes,  and  threaten- 

.^11 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

ing  obstruction  if  these  were  not  forthcoming. 
So  he  had  moved  to  Santola,  and  carried  on  nego- 
tiations quietly  through  the  local  Jefe  Politico. 
He  found  it  much  cheaper  to  subsidize  one  man 
than  a  multitude. 

This  explanation  satisfied  Rourke's  natural 
curiosity. 

At  last  Smith  rose,  yawning  largely.  "  Time 
to  roost,  sonny,"  he  observed  in  his  easy  drawL 
''  I  own  I  am  considerable  surprised  that  you 
haven't  yet  thought  of  calling  on  mademoiselle, 
ril  bet  there's  some  true  lover's  knot  at  the  back 
of  that ;  but,  not  being  of  a  curious  disposition,  I 
shan't  inquire." 

Rourke  took  a  final  puff  at  his  cigar,  and 
tossed  it  into  an  ash-tray.  He  did  not  reply,  but 
nodded  good-humoredly,  and  went  over  to  speak 
to  Leon,  who  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  doz- 
ing over  a  cigarette. 

"  Vamos,  Leon.  Time  for  bed.  For  myself, 
I  could  do  with  a  sleep  that'd  last  till  next  week." 

Smith  rang  one  of  his  many  electric  bells  to 
summon  his  major-domo.  The  man  came  quick- 
ly, and  was  told  to  show  Rourke  and  Leon  to 
their  rooms. 

"  It  shall  be  done  at  once.  Sefiores,  will  you 
be  pleased  to  follow  me  ?  Everything  is  in  readi- 
ness for  your  Honors." 

They  said  good  night  then  to  their  host,  who 
312 


THE    BETTERED    TIME 

affected  late  hours,  and  seemed  to  thrive  on  the 
habit.  Leon  had  a  small  room  on  the  second 
floor;  Rourke  a  spacious  apartment,  well  lighted 
by  windows  facing  the  street.  He  was  greatly 
fatigued,  but  not  in  the  least  inclined  for  sleep. 
His  brightening  prospects,  the  fact  that  there  was 
no  longer  any  necessity  to  conceal  his  plans, 
together  with  the  thoughts  of  Jeanne,  formed 
subjects  about  which  his  mind  played  pleasantly. 
He  had  to  assure  himself  again  that  it  was  all 
true.  The  barrier  which  had  separated  him  from 
Jeanne  was  now  removed,  the  burden  of  a  vicari- 
ous vendetta  had  been  taken  from  his  shoulders. 
He  felt  light  of  heart,  immensely  optimistic  for 
the  future. 

The  terrible  scene  upon  the  pass  lingered 
only  fragmentarily  in  his  mind.  The  affair  was 
over,  the  chief  protagonists  removed,  and  no 
purpose  was  to  be  served  by  dwelling  on  the  trag- 
edy. Thoughts  of  the  girl  who  loved  and  waited 
for  him  crowded  out,  at  last,  all  minor  interests. 
He  remembered  their  last  interview  in  the  warm 
gloom  of  the  cafe  patio;  the  touch  of  her  lips  on 
his,  the  remembered  pressure  of  her  arms,  im- 
pressed themselves  on  his  senses,  almost  as  deep- 
ly as  they  had  done  when  he  had  taken  her  into 
his  embrace,  and  felt  the  light  caress  of  her  hair 
upon  his  forehead. 

Did  she  know  that  he  had  returned  to  San- 

313 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

tola?  Would  she  misconstrue  the  motives  which 
had  led  him  to  postpone  his  hour  of  joy?  He 
asked  himself  these  questions,  well  knowing  that 
Jeanne  both  knew  of  his  arrival  and  would  un- 
derstand why  he  had  delayed  the  meeting.  He 
took  a  curious  pleasure  in  these  thoughts,  be- 
cause they  wove  themselves  about  Jeanne.  It 
was  amazing  to  think  that  happiness,  undiluted, 
unalloyed,  was  at  length  within  his  reach.  It 
was  a  truth  outvieing  the  strangest  fiction. 

"  Look  as  if  you'd  had  a  mighty  fine  sleep, 
Rourke,"  Smith  said  to  him  at  breakfast. 

"  Not  a  wink,"  Rourke  laughed. 

"Say,  is  that  so?  Oh,  you're  in  love.  It 
takes  that  to  make  a  man  dine  ofif  thin  air,  and 
sleep  with  his  eyes  open.  Well,  I  congratulate 
you,  sir.  George  H.  hands  you  the  glad  pat,  and 
wishes  you  all  the  joy  you  can  corral  into  three 
score  and  ten.  Yes,  sir.  The  congratulations 
are  on  to  me,  and  I  ante  up  freely." 

"  Thank  you !  "  said  Rourke,  holding  out  his 
hand.  "  I'll  be  after  going  round  to  the  cafe  this 
minute.    See  you  later." 

"  I  reckon,"  said  Smith,  winking. 

He  went  out  to  the  door  with  Rourke,  and 
stood  looking  after  him  until  he  had  turned  the 
corner  and  disappeared.  He  laughed  a  little,  at 
first,  then  grew  sober,  and  seemed  to  be  think- 
ing. 

314 


THE    BETTERED    TIME 

His  schemes  and  plans,  the  combinations  in 
which  his  soul  delighted;  the  joy  of  battle  in  the 
commercial  arena,  seemed  to  recede  into  the  dim 
background  of  his  mind.  He  wondered  if  the 
game  were  worth  the  candle.  There  was  some- 
thing lacking,  some  essential  factor  in  life  which 
he  recognized  as  having  missed.  The  mood 
passed.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  smiled. 
If  there  were  fewer  joys  in  his  life,  there  certain- 
ly were  fewer  responsibilities  of  a  really  serious 
kind.     He  went  indoors,  humming  cheerfully. 

Rourke  walked  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the 
Cafe  Fleur  de  Lys,  his  pulses  beating  with  a  new 
force,  in  the  bewildering  consciousness  that  his 
faint  hopes  and  hazy  dreams  were  at  last  to  be 
realized,  and  made  haste  to  cross  the  plaza.  He 
was  a  trifle  nervous,  more  so,  perhaps,  than  he 
had  ever  been  since  that  day  when,  reeling  into 
the  cafe,  he  had  stood  at  the  counter  staring  at 
Jeanne. 

He  had  no  idea  that  it  would  prove  so  difficult 
to  speak  when  the  right  moment  came.  Their 
intimacy  was  close,  he  had  told  her  that  he  loved 
her,  yet  an  undefinable  perturbation  seized  him 
now  as  he  went  forward  to  the  capture  of  that 
elusive  spirit  we  call  happiness.  What  would 
Jeanne  say  to  him?  A  momentary  doubt  seized 
him ;  natural  yet  unjustified.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  he  had  a  long  tale  to  tell,  a  complicated  ex- 

21  315 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

planation  to  make,  before  he  could  speak  of  his 
love,  and  listen  to  her  brave  confession.  This 
stood  up  like  a  scepter  between  him  and  his  hopes. 

Jeanne  was  not  in  the  cafe.  He  approached 
the  head  waiter.  Solar,  with  a  question,  and  was 
met  by  the  reply  that  mademoiselle  was  expect- 
ing him,  and  had  asked  that  he  should  join  her 
in  the  patio.  Rourke  wondered  what  this  might 
portend.  Jeanne  evidently  knew  that  he  had  re- 
turned to  Santola. 

"  I  see !  "  He  looked  tentatively  at  Solar.  "  I 
will  go  to  her  immediately.  How  has  the  cafe 
been  getting  on  since  Monsieur  Courvois  went 
away  ?  " 

Solar  shrugged:  "Very  well,  senor.  But 
now,  it  appears  that  it  is  to  be  disposed  of,  or,  at 
least,  given  up.  I  hope  that  the  senor  will  speak 
for  me  to  the  senorita.  I  have  been  here  ten 
years." 

Rourke  nodded:  ''That  will  be  all  right, 
Solar.  I'll  see  to  it  that  you  are  recommended  to 
the  new  proprietor,  whoever  he  may  be." 

"  A  thousand  thanks,  sefior.  You  have,  of 
course,  heard  of  the  death  of  the  patron?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  about  it."  Rourke  looked  puz- 
zled. How  had  the  news  traveled  here?  Did 
Jeanne  know  ?  "  The  sefiorita,  then,  has  also 
heard?" 

"It  is  so.  A  mulat — a  certain  Senor  Leon 
316 


THE    BETTERED    TIME 

called  here  yesterday  afternoon,  and  had  an  in- 
terview with  her." 

Rourke  restrained  an  exclamation  of  surprise : 
"  Thank  you !    I  will  go  now  to  the  sefiorita." 

He  walked  quickly  to  the  door,  swung  it  open, 
and  emerged  in  the  full  sunlight  of  the  patio. 
Jeanne  was  seated  there,  in  the  shade  of  the  cor- 
ridor, her  head  slightly  bent,  her  hands  crossed 
lightly  in  her  lap.  She  sprang  up,  and  came  to 
meet  him. 

"  Desmon',  I  was  waiting  for  you." 

"  My  dear — "  He  put  out  his  hand  and  took 
both  of  hers.  Their  eyes  glowed.  He  did  not 
kiss  her,  but,  drawing  her  gently  back  to  her  seat, 
stood  leaning  against  one  of  the  trellised  pillars. 

"  You've  heard  about  him — Courvois,  I 
mean?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  considering  the 
statue  beaming  beneficently  at  them  in  the  sun- 
light. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  that?  "  he 
asked,  irrelevantly. 

''  Mon  cher,  I  shall  let  it  remain.  The  money 
was  his.  Let  it  stay.  I  should  not  touch  it.  As 
for  the  cafe,  that  must  be  sold.  I  think  the  pro- 
ceeds of  the  sale  had  better  be  given  to  some  good 
object.    But  certainly !  " 

"  That's  right."     Rourke  was  regarding  her 

3^7 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

with  a  whimsical  smile :  "  This  alters  your  posi- 
tion a  bit,  though,  doesn't  it  ?  You  will  be  penni- 
less; without  a  home.  Sure!  you'll  want  some 
one  to  look  after  you,  Jeanne." 

She  smiled  a  little:  "Monsieur  Courvois  is 
dead  then.  I  heard  it  yesterday  from  your  friend, 
M.  Leon.  My  mother  also.  Ah!  I  never  knew 
her,  but  it  was  sad,  so  sad.  I  feel  triste  to-day, 
Desmon'." 

"  No  doubt !  "  he  said,  gravely.  "  Well,  dear, 
it's  a  burden  off  my  mind.  I'd  come  to  tell  you 
that  story,  and  it  was  too  long  and  too  unhappy 
to  make  the  telling  of  it  pleasant.  I'm  glad  you 
know.  I  am  staying  with  Smith,  you  see,  in  the 
Calle  Huelva.  I  expect  he  knew  how  I'd  feel 
about  it,  and  sent  Leon  to  explain  it  all.  He's  a 
curious  man  that,  Jeanne.  I  don't  know  that  I 
understand  him." 

"  He  is  amiable  at  least."  She  leaned  for- 
ward, and  looked  at  him  questioningly.  "  You 
knew  my  father — my  mother.  You  helped  them 
in  their  troubles.  You  are  a  good  man,  Des- 
mon'." 

"  Now  don't ! "  he  protested,  fidgeting,  and 
looking  uneasy.  "  Your  father  was  the  decent- 
est  man  on  this  continent,  and  your  mother,  poor 
lady,  one  of  the  sweetest  women,  in  her  quiet 
moods.     They  did  a  lot  for  me,  when  I  was 

318 


I 


THE    BETTERED    TIME 

stabbed  over  there  beyond.  I'd  have  bled  to 
death  if  it  wasn't  for  the  nursing  I  got." 

Jeanne  smiled  again:  ''I  said  to  you  once 
that  women  always  found  out  what  they  wished 
to  find  out.  So,  you  see,  it  is  true.  You  would 
have  had  me  believe  that  you  were  a  monster. 
But  I  never  believed  it.  I  knew  there  must  be 
something  which  you  had  never  disclosed  to  me. 
To  believe  that  you  wished  to  rob  Monsieur 
Courvois — ah!  C'etait  vraiment  impossible!  I 
knew  that  in  time  I  should  come  to  understand 
your  motive,  and  to  know  that  you  remained  my 
preux  chevalier." 

He  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  colored 
slightly.  "  You're  giving  me  more  credit  than  I 
ever  honestly  earned  in  my  life,"  he  said  slowly. 
''  Sure,  there  was  Leon  had  far  the  hardest  time 
of  it!  When  I  was  down  here  enjoying  myself, 
wasn't  he  cooped  up  there  on  the  mountain? 
Och!  Jeanne,  there's  a  man  for  you.  Dark  as 
he  is,  there  isn't  a  whiter  man  between  this  and 
Patagonia.    It's  him  you  ought  to  be  thanking." 

Jeanne  turned  her  head  away  to  hide  a  smile. 

"  As  I  understand  it,  then,  you  have  done  lit- 
tle, and  this  Monsieur  Leon  a  great  deal  ?  " 

"  That's  about  the  size  of  it,"  he  said  bluffly. 

"  You  were,  in  effect,  of  very  little  use  in  that 
menage  up  there?" 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that,"  he  said  seriously.    '*  I 

319 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

did  something,  and  I  had  some  hardships.  But 
Leon  did  the  most,  and  suffered  the  most," 

Jeanne  came  to  stand  beside  him,  and  her  eyes 
were  twinkhng  with  pretty  mahce:  "Oh,  my 
poor  Desmon',  what  a  miserable  man  there  is  to 
me,  after  all !  A  rogue,  an  idler,  what  were  you 
not?" 

Rourke  opened  his  eyes  wide :  "  I  believe  you 
were  laughing  at  me,  you  witch.  Were  you 
now?  " 

"  Ah,  I  laugh,  and  I  cry !  You  think  you  can 
tell  the  woman  who  loves  you  that  you  are  al- 
most worthless.  You  think  that  you  can  make 
her  place  you  second  to  another  man  whom  she 
knows  not  at  all.  One  sees  that  you  have  not 
made  a  study  of  my  sex.  Monsieur  Desmon'.  I 
am  glad  for  that,  too." 

"  Are  you  now?  "  said  he,  smiling.  "  Well,  I 
think  you're  right.  Faith!  I  never  got  close 
enough  to  any  of  them  to  study  them  closely. 
Well,  let's  drop  that  for  the  moment,  till  I  tell 
you  of  my  good  luck." 

"  Continues!  "  She  slipped  her  arm  through 
his,  and  leaned  upon  him  a  little,  for  the  sheer 
pleasure  of  the  contact. 

"  Well,  I've  no  excuse  for  being  an  idler  any 
longer,  Jeanne,"  he  said,  dropping  into  her  light- 
hearted  tone.  "  I  held  to  it  as  long  as  I  could, 
knowing  that  any  excuse  is  good  enough  to  keep 

320 


I 


THE    BETTERED    TIME 

a  man  from  his  work.  But,  sure,  a  misfortune's 
fallen  on  me.  I've  got  to  manage  a  big  place  for 
Smith — for  old  George  H.  A  ranch  it  is,  and 
going  to  be  on  up-to-date  lines." 

"  Oh,  that  is  very  good ! "  Jeanne  pressed 
his  arm  tightly.  ''  But,  as  you  say,  it  will  mean 
the  hard  work." 

They  played  with  their  joy,  as  a  cat  may  play 
with  a  mouse,  letting  it  slip  a  little  from  them, 
seeming  to  look  away  from  it,  then  grasping  it 
again,  and  holding  it  closely. 

"  There's  another  bother  to  it,"  said  Rourke, 
looking  tragic.  "  Sure,  it'll  mean  leaving  San- 
tola,  and  going  to  live  by  myself  in  a  lonely  des- 
ert, so  it  will." 

"  Perhaps  Monsieur  will  enjoy  the  solitude  ?  " 
Jeanne  questioned. 

"  Oh,  splendidly,"  he  said. 

"  He  will  admire  Nature." 

"  He'll  never  be  done  admiring  it,  bedad !  " 

"  Desmon' !  "  she  said,  softly. 

"Jeanne?" 

She  made  no  reply,  but  withdrew  his  arm,  and 
stood  a  pace  away  from  him.  Tenderness  lurked 
in  the  depths  of  her  fine  eyes.  She  looked  at  him 
steadily. 

"  What  makes  you  do  it,  Jeanne?  "  he  asked. 

"Do— what?" 

321 


DESMOND    ROURKE,    IRISHMAN 

"  Plague  me  so,"  he  said,  advancing,  and 
possessing  himself  of  her  hand.  "  Sure,  you're 
the  cruelest  little  woman  that  ever  lived.  What 
with  drawing  the  heart  out  of  me  with  your  dear 
ways,  and  making  me  forget  me  dignity,  and  the 
fine  position  I  have,  I  hardly  know  which  way  to 
turn." 

Her  eyes  were  alight :  "  Do  you  love  me, 
then?" 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  a  pretense  of  indiffer- 
ence. 

"  You  do  not  love  me?  " 

"  No,  I  worship  you !  " 

"  Those  are  fine  words,  but  what  do  they 
mean  ?  "  she  fenced. 

"  I  suppose  they  mean  that  I'm  willing  to  add 
another  to  my  responsibilities,"  he  said,  with  a 
twinkle. 

They  stood  silent  for  a  little  while:  perfectly 
happy,  wrapt  in  quiet  content.  Then  Rourke 
took  her  in  his  arms,  and  drew  her  head  to  his 
shoulder.  "  Darling,"  he  said,  "  will  you  have 
me  go  away  to  that  lonely  place  without  you? 
Won't  you  ask  me  to  stay?  " 

"  Desmon',  I  will  not  ask  you  to  stay  here," 
she  said,  laughing  up  in  his  face. 

"  What's  to  be  done,  then  ?  "  he  asked,  press- 
ing her  closer. 

322 


THE    BETTERED    TIME 

Jeanne  considered  for  a  moment.  He  bent  his 
head  down  to  listen. 

"  If  you  must  go  to  this  place,  Desmon'/'  she 
whispered,  "  and  I  do  not  ask  you  to  stay  here,  I 
think — I  think  I  must  go — with  you'' 


(1) 


THE  END 


NOVELS  BY  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

"The  most  popuUr  <writer  in  the  country." — New  York  World. 

Ailsa  Paige.  Bound  in  green  cloth  with  gold  title.  Eight 
full-page  illustrations  by  F.  Vaux  Wilson  and  wrapper 
in  colors  and  gold.     $1.50. 

This  book  contains  not  only  the  striking  pictures  of  fashionable  life  fo. 
■which  Mr.  Chambers  is  famous,  introducing  a  hero  as  strong  and  as  inter- 
esting as  Malcourt  in  "The  Firing  Line"  and  a  heroine  as  fascinating  as 
Sylvia  Landis  in  "The  Fighting  Chance,"  but  with  these  personalities  is  fused 
a  theme  of  noblest  patriotism,  animating  the  vivid,  graphic  pictures  of  the 
preparations  for  and  the  gjim  fighting  in  our  Civil  War.  Throughout  tht 
virhole  story,  the  influence  of  a  strong,  passionate,  uplifting  love  is  shown  para- 
mount in  the  lives  of  a  virondrous  woman  and  a  vigorous  man. 

The  Danger  Mark.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

This  new  society  novel  presents  another  side  of  the  wonderful  art  of 
Mr.  Chambers.  The  background  is  vi^oven  of  the  same  delightful  casual, 
happy-go-lucky  people,  moving  among  the  same  sort  of  fascinating  scenes  and 
incidents  to  which  the  former  novels  owe  much  of  their  popularity.  The 
theme  is  in  many  respects  the  most  important  Mr.  Chambers  has  yet  handled. 

The  Firing  Line.     Illustrated.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

This  is  unquestionably  the  best  novel  Mr.  Chambers  has  ever  written. 
The  scenes  are  laid  in  Palm  Beach,  Florida ;  New  York,  and  the  Adirondacks, 
and  the  story  presents  the  accomplishment  of  a  great  novel  which  was  promised 
by  the  author's  preliminary  trials  in  "The  Fighting  Chance"  and  "The 
Younger  Set." 

The  Younger  Set.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  The  Younger  Set "  is  a  novel  of  the  swirl  of  wealthy  New  York  society. 
The  hero,  forced  out  of  the  army  by  domestic  troubles,  returns  to  New  York 
homeless  and  idle.  He  finds  a  beautiful  girl  who  promises  ideal  happiness. 
But  new  complications  intervene  and  are  described  with  what  the  New  York 
Sun  calls  Mr.  Chambers'  "  amazing  knack  of  narrative." 

The  Fighting  Chance.     Illustrated.    Cloth,  $1.50. 

One  of  the  most  brilliant  pictures  of  wealthy  American  society  ever  painted; 
one  of  the  most  interesting  and  appealing  stories  ever  written  ;  one  of  the 
most  widely  read  of  all  American  novels.  The  novel  that  brought  Mr.  Cham- 
bers to  the  front  rank. 

"After  '  The  House  of  Mirth '  a  New  York  society  novel  has  to  be  very 
good  not  to  suffer  fearfully  by  comparison.  '  The  Fighting  Chance '  is  very 
good  and  it  does  not  snU&r y  —Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 

"  There  is  no  more  adorable  person  in  recent  fiction  than  Sylvia  Landis." 

— New  York  Evening  Sun. 

B.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK 


NOVELS  BY  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

''The  most  popular  m>rfter  in  the  country." — New  York  World, 

The  Green   Mouse.     Illustrated  in  Colors  by  Edmund 
Frederick.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

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machine  that  catches  and  brings  into  contact  the  psychic  waves  of  persons 
of  opfMJsite  sex. 

Special  Messenger.     Illustrated,  Colored  Inlay  on  Cover. 

Cloth,  $1.50. 

The  romantic  love  story  of  a  woman  spy  in  the  Civil  War. 

lole.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"Think  of  eight  pretty  girls  in  pink  silk  pajamas  and  sunbonnets, 
brought  >'p  in  innocence  in  a  scientific  Eden,  with  a  '  House  Beautiful '  in 
the  back^^ound,  and  a  poetical  father  in  the  foreground.  Think  again  of 
those  rose-petalled  creations  turned  loose  upon  New  York  society  and  then 
enjoy  the  fun  of  it  all  in  '  lole.'  " — Boston  Herald. 

Some  Ladies  in  Haste.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

Mr.  Chambers  has  written  most  delightfully,  and  in  his  charming  satire 
depicts  the  plight  of  five  society  girls  and  five  clubmen.  It  is  by  far  his  best 
work  in  the  lighter  vein. 

The  Tracer  of  Lost  Persons.   Illustrated,   Cloth,  $1.50. 

The  captivating  account  of  the  strangely  absorbing  adventures  of  a 
"matrimonial  sleuth,"  "a  deputy  of  Cupid." 

"  Compared  with  him  Sherlock  Holmes  is  clumsy  and  without  human 
emotions. ' ' —  Chicago  In  ter-  Ocean . 

The  Tree  of  Heaven.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

If  you  looked  squarely  into  a  mirror  and  saw  your  PROFILE  instead 
of  your  full  face;  if  you  suddenly  found  yourself  25  miles  away  from  yourself 
you  would  be  in  one  of  the  tantalizing  situations  that  give  fascination  to  this 
charming  book. 

"  Robert  W.  Chambers  has  brought  his  great  charm  of  story  telling  to 
bear  in  'The  Tree  of  Heaven,'  wherein  he  treats  of  the  occult  and  mysticism 
of  the  East.  His  vivid  descriptions  make  his  scenes  strangely  real,  and  his 
argument  is  convincing,  almost  against  the  will." — Milwaukee  Sentinel. 

The  Reckoning.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

A  story  of  northern  New  York  during  the  last  fierce  fights  between 
Tories  and  Revolutionaries  and  the  Iroquois  Indians,  by  which  tribe  the  hero 
had  been  adopted. 

"It  would  be  but  an  unresponsive  American  that  would  not  thrill  to 
such  relations." — New  York  Times. 

D,     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK 
4M 


II 


By  DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS 


The  Grain  of  Dust 

By  David  Graham  Phillips,  author  of  "  The 
Husband's  Story,"  "The  Hungry  Heart,"  "Old 
Wives  for  New,"  etc.  Illustrated  by  A.  B. 
Wenzell.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.30  net. 

The  story  of  a  great  lawyer  whose  career  comes  near 
being  wrecked  through  his  infatuation  for  a  shy  little 
stenographer, 

"Told  with  unlimited  brilliance  and  animation." 

— Albany  Journal. 

**  It  compels  a  style  of  reading  distinctly  feverish." 

— New  York  Times. 

"  Probably  the  most  brilliant  of  the  novelist's  numerous 
studies  of  character  amid  varying  conditions  of  life." 

— Pittsburg  Chronicle-  Telegraph. 

"This  is  one  of  the  most  significant  novels  of  the  year 
so  far  in  its  constructive  bearing  upon  the  difficulties  of 
modern  existence.  It  deserves  attention  because  of  its 
singular  merits." — The  Independent. 

"It  is  conceived  in  the  same  vein  of  sincerity  and  treats 
modern  life  with  that  firm  and  certain  grasp  which  has  com- 
pelled serious  and  nation-wide  recognition  for  practically  all 
of  Philhps's  work." — Philadelphia  Press. 

"  One  reads  it  with  feverish  interest.  It  seems  to  demon- 
strate that  love  is  an  illusion,  but  a  very  fatal  and  disturbing 
illusion  while  it  lasts.  The  story  is  remarkable  for  its  concise 
and  suggestive  realism." — Des  Moines  Register  and  Leader. 

D.     APPLETON      &     COMPANY,      NEW     YORK 


A  SPLENDID  SOCIETY  NOVEL 


The  Bolted  Door 

By  George  Gibbs,  author  of  "  Tony's  Wife," 
etc.  Illustrated  by  the  author.  i2mo.  Cloth, 
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The  story  of  an  ambitious  young  inventor  and  a  young 
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eccentric  millionaire  uncle. 

"Fresh,  strong,  and  irresistibly  interesting." — New  York  World. 

"One  of  the  most  attractive  novels  which  has  appeared  for  a  long 
time.  Holds  the  interest  breathless  all  the  time  and  ends  with  a  most 
satisfactory  rush  of  happiness." — Boston  Globe. 

"A  clever,  fascinating  love  story." — Detroit  News. 

"Bright,  exciting,  and  decidedly  up-to-date.  The  characters  are 
sharply  drawn  and  well  contrasted,  and  the  background  of  social 
opulence  well  colored.  It  is  decidedly  worth  reading.  Sure  to  be  a 
best  seller." — Springfield  Republican. 

"A  rattling  good  story.  Wholesome,  sweet-spirited,  well  planned, 
absorbing." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  Admirably  constructed.  Interesting  episodes  succeed  each  other 
and  the  frothy  and  clever  dialogue  of  the  fashionable  butterflies  of  the 
New  York  smart  set  is  wittily  flippant  and  amusing.  It  is  a  capital 
novel.  The  real  depths  of  human  feeling  are  treated  with  fine  emo- 
tional power." — Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

"The  most  distinguished  society  novel  for  a  long  time  and  one 
of  the  most  dramatic." — Hartford  Courant. 

"As  up-to-date  as  the  steam  yacht.  More  than  ordinarily  pleas- 
ing."— Brooklyn  Eagle. 

D.     APPLETON     AND      COMPANY,     NEW     YORK 


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— New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

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New  copyright  edition,  revised  by  the  author. 
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The  Little  Manx  Nation.     Si. 00. 


APPLETON     AND     COMPANY.     NEW     YORK, 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  **THE  HGHTING  CHANCE.' 


The  Younger  Set. 

A  Novel  by  Robert  W.  Chambers.  Illus- 
trated by  G.  C.  Wilmshurst.    i2mo.    Cloth,  $1.50. 

This  is  a  famous  novel  of  New  York  society ;  a 
brilliant  picture  of  American  wealth  in  its  romance, 
its  sins,  its  splendors,  its  divorces  and  its  sports ; 
a  love  story  such  as  only  Robert  W.  Chambers  can 
write.  It  is  stronger,  tenser,  better  than  the  same 
author's  greatest  success,  "  The  Fighting  Chance." 
Richly  illustrated  by  G.  C.  Wilmshurst. 

"  It  is  brightly  told,  replete  with  the  wit  and  sparkle 
and  charm  that  invests  everything  Mr.  Chambers  writes. 
It  is  a  delightful  sojourn  among  people  one  could  wish  to 
know." — Kansas  City  Star. 

"  It  is  written  with  a  freshness  and  vigor  that  cannot  be 
too  much  appreciated  and  praised." — Salt  Lake  Tribune. 

"It  is  the  best  story  Mr.  Chambers  has  ever  written." 

— Cleveland  LeasUr. 

"  The  most  popular  writer  in  the  country  has  improved 
upon  his  own  very  popular  '  Fighting  Chance.'  " 

— New  York  World. 

D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


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